west of sunset
by dirk bogard

chapter 1.
Supper with Alice

The telephone in his bedroom purred discreetly; it was that kind
of
an hotel. Do not alarm the guests: alert them gently.
  He hurried through from the bathroom doing up his flies.
  'Jon? It's the Widow Arlington. Are you all right%'
  'Very all right. Now. I just got in from a long. long in-depth
meeting on the script.'
  `This a bad time to call: '
  'A good time. I just had a pee. Perfectly comfortable.'
  She laughed lightly. some miles away. 'Tonight still all
right?'
  'Perfect. The thought of it kept me going through the whole
soggy
afternoon.'
  'And don't change. remember: Jeans. sweater. whatever. In-
formal anyway. It's just candles. cracked crab, white wine and
a few
oddies.'
  'Oddies?'
  'Oh. you know. People.'
  'Anything I can bring you?'
  'Ah ha. . . well, if you are passing, and if they are still
open. grab
a couple of French loaves from Jurgensen's. would you% I assume
that they have given you a car and a driver%'
  'You assume correctly. I have a brand new orange Ford. and a
white rat to drive it.'
  'White rat: '
  'He's called Wayne and he plays in a combo all night. drives
me
all day. never sleeps. He looks like a potato shoot.'
  'Attractive. Everyone in this town has two jobs.'
  'So I have gathered in my twenty-four hours here.'
  'Are you feeling very jet-lagged? I mean, if you are, don't.
. .'
  He cut in quickly. `I'm supposed to be, but I'm not yet. If I
slump
suddenly under your table you'll know it's caught me up. Right?'
  'Right. The address? You have it%'
  He reached out for his personal telephone book on the night-
table. rustled pages.
  Her voice. in his hand. was accusatory. `You've lost it.'
  'No. Front page almost. Arlington. 1265 Gretna Green Drive.
Which I just don't believe. . .'
  'You'd better. it's where I live. We've got a Balmoral, a Ben
Nevis.
a Lomond and a Glasgow around us. Must have been a homesick
builder at work.'
  'Brentwood. Los Angeles.'
  'That's it. Tell the White Rat to go down Wilshire to the San
Diego Freeway. under it onto San Vicente. turn right opposite the
Country Club. He can't miss that. it's got trees. Gretna Green
Drive
climbs up. but tell him not to go as far as Sunset, I'm sort of
west
of Sunset. . .'
  'Alice dear. You can't be west of Sunset. Sunset is west.'
  'I know what 1 mean. Bring the telephone number with you, call
from a drugstore if you get lost.'
  'The number is engraved on my heart.'
  'Silly idiot. Really. And the bread. If you can?'
  `I will. I really do rather long to see you.'
  'I do too. And so do Clemency and Hope.'
  He laughed suddenly. `Point taken. Warning me with your ofþ
spring.'
  'I wouldn't dream of using my children to warn you.'
  'Good.'
  'And Dubrovnik is cooking.' She had pitched her voice a little
higher for someone else to hear. 'Poor darling's in the kitchen
at this
very moment. preparing his gazpacho. . .'
  'I get it,' he said.
  'And the bread, remember:'
  'Entendu. Ciao., he said, and heard her laugh gently as he
replaced the receiver.

  She hadn't changed at all. Slender, small hands and feet. the
cascade of ash blond hair tumbling round her shoulders, the same
wide smile. the troubled eyes in a smiling face.
  She took the two loaves and a package which he had brought
from the hotel, kissed him warmly. but lightly.
  'This is Wayne who drives me. He didn't make a single error.
. .'
  'Howdy,' said Wayne. 'This thing is heavy.' He was holding a
large basket covered in clear yellow plastic. 'Can I set it down
some-place. . .%'
  `In here.' she said and moved back into a small. cramped
hallway.
'Just put it anywhere.'
  Wayne was wearing an orange suit which matched the car and
white sneakers which matched his face. He put the basket down
on a chest covered with coats and books. A book fell, others
scattered.
  `Sorry. . .'
  'Don't worry. The house is a mess. That's just fine.'
  'What time you want me back%' he asked Jon, loosening the knot
of his tie.
  'Not too late. I have an early morning. Say about elevenish.
okay%'
  'Okay. You got my number if you want me sooner% I'm at my
sister's.'
  'Yes. I have it. Eleven will be fine.'
  'Shall do. Pleased to meet you.' he nodded at Alice. `Have a
nice
time now.'
  She closed the door. 'Eleven is a bit early.'
  'Breakfast with a producer. the producer. Breakfast! God.
America!'
  'Breakfast is usual. Don't waste a moment of the day. Thanks
for
the bread.'
  'It's in poor shape. I.imp.'
  'Five minutes in the oven. What's all this in the
goodie-basket: '
  'Present from Cristal Productions. I don't know. A pineapple,
I see
...a bottle...'
  'Come and meet Dubrovnik. He's sweating away in there, my
tame Slav.'
  A tall. burly man with shaggy hair. in a striped butcher's
apron
in a too small kitchen.
  'This is Jonathan Pool. Boris. . . you didn't meet in London.
did
  you%'
  'Not London. no.' The tall man wiped his hands on the apron and
  shook hands. `Hi! Alice don't cook. You know this? I cook. All
she
  do is coffee.'
  'Stop complaining.' said Alice. turning on the oven. `It's a
cold supper and the main course has all been prepared for you.
I just hope to God it thaws out in time. Alaska crab. Ripped from
the
heart
  of a glacier by the look of it.'
  Dubrovnik turned back to his chopping board. took up a half
glass
  of wine and drained it. 'Too soon for the oven. I do. You leave
me
  sweat. okay% Please darling. huh?'
   'Come into the sitting room.
said Alice and led
 him out through the cluttered hallway. `Bring the basket of
goodies.
We can open it in there.'
  A long. dauntingly rectangular. room. A bow window at the far
end with bottle-end panes of glass here and there. Walls lined
with
planking. whitewashed; board floor and scattered rugs, an open
fireplace built of river-washed boulders in which an ox could
have
been roasted but in which a single log steamed with a sigh. The
whole effect strove to suggest a fisherman's cottage on some
bleak
East Coast shore: California style.
  Woven Indian blankets on the long settee, a poster for some
forgotten Paris exhibition of Dali: crushed-looking armchairs in
mattress ticking. a table at the hall end vaguely laid for
supper.
candles in Mexican pottery holders. a glass bowl of dried
flowers.
  Alice snapped a switch somewhere: Gershwin came up very low.
There was a lost scent of joss-sticks.
  'Calm.' he said. 'Nice.'
  'Cheap.' she said. 'Rented monthly. A drink% Scotch. vodka. .
. or
there's wine?'
  'Scotch. no ice.'
  'No ice% Golly. Water: '
  'A tear.'
  She handed him the glass. poured herself a glass of wine,
carried
it to the far end of the blanket-draped settee.
  'Sit down. Relax. No one's arriving until eight thirty. . . we
can
have a chat.'
' He raised his glass to her. `Like old times.'
  'Very old times.'
  'Yah. . . they were a while ago, I suppose.'
  'Amazing to find you here. You. of all people who hate moving
  . . . Who bought your book? I forget. Head like a sieve.'
  He indicated the yellow plastic covered basket. 'Cristal
Productions. One Andy Shapiro thinks it has "great. great
potential".'
  'Big deal. Big time stuff. Hope they paid you.' She stirred the
ice
  cubes in her wine. `I'm managing.' she said, as if he had asked
her.
  'Well. or medium well?'
  She shrugged. `Sometimes it's well. Sometimes just medium.'
  'And you'll stay here: In California: '
  'They say there are worse places. I'm in trade. Did I tell you:
'
  'No. Buying and selling?'
  'Selling. I'm a "booteek". Very chic. Called County. Updated
  English classics. Tweed, cashmere, flannel. Not a sequin. a
rhine-
  stone or a feather in sight.'
  'Clever. '
  'I thought so. Hugo's American publisher set me up. Interest
on
  the loan. naturally.'
  'Naturally. High: '
  'Moderately. But he's waived the advance for the book he
commissioned from him. It was quite a fat one.'
  'Generous fellow.'
  'Shrewd. There's a catch. He's claimed all the material Hugo
had
  done before the accident - a third of the book plus all his
notes,
  research stuff, tapes and so on.'
  'Ah.'
  'And now he wants his journals for '19 and '80. Covering the
period he was working here. I'm frankly not so keen about that.'
She ran fingers through her hair, absently pulled an ear lobe.
'However. beggars can't be. . . y'know.'
  `And he's got someone standing by ready to whip it all into
shape.
Am I right: '
  'Of course. There's a third of a book completed, he likes it.
.
. he's
no fool. Things don't come for free in this place. . . sympathy
stops
at the graveside.'
  'But it's working: The shop:'
  She laughed suddenly. 'Shop! You are marvellous. so English.
Yes, the shop. as you call it. is working. Early days. but the
Rich
Bitches are catching on. Very important. I make a few pennies.'
  `All your own work% Your designs%'
  'Mine. All mine. I had to do something. Hugo left nothing. I
mean
you should have seen the will. God! As muddled and hopeless as
he
became in the end. Fortunately I've still got Daddy's wedding
present. A wealth of old oak beams in a ten-acre paddock outside
Horsham, called. appropriately enough, Farthing Hall.'
  'You got my letter: After the accident. . . I mean.'
  'Didn't I write back% Oh God. . . I'm impossible. . .'
  'You weren't meant to. But you did?'
  'I did. and you were angelic. No one else thought of money.
They
all assumed I was stinking rich. Only you thought. Thank you.'
  'I knew Hugo too. . .'
  `Not a bloody sou. All I have is the rent from Farthing Hall
in
Sussex, let. thank God, to a very important Lebanese
something-or-
other. All that was left was a raft of bills and a mass of debts.
I mean
a mass.'
  'The good life costs. Maseratis. Laurent Perrier. handmade
shirts.'
  'Not to mention various little peccadilloes.'
  She got up and kicked the sighing log. placed another across
it.
blew with a pair of bellows. sending up a spiral of ash and tired
smoke.
  'Clemency lit this. Said she had. Children. God!' She returned
to
her corner of the long settee. curled up like a cat.
  'At least he gave you those. Clemency and Hope.'
  'At least those. I'm very. very grateful. But his peccadilloes
came
dear. Very dear. I had no idea that they could cost so much.'
  'His kind perhaps% You pay for rarity.'
  'They were rare all right. I don't know all of it. but it was
rare.
That's what I'm really dreading, The Life and Times of Hugo
Arling-
ton. Apart from the debts, he left a library of journals. Very
secret.
Now they belong to me and I am about to read them and perhaps
discover who my husband was. Odd: '
  'Odd. But then most of us have a secret life, don't we%'
  She smiled a neat. cat smile. wagged a foot. 'You% I don't
believe
that you have. you're too open. Honest.'
'Oh God. That's cruel.'
'Not meant to be. A blazing compliment - coming from me
anyway.'
  'I sound like something out of Warwick Deeping.'
  `Don't look like it.'
  'Sorrell and Son%'
  She laughed, bending her head towards her knee. the heavy
fair hair falling: she shook it back behind her ears. with a
gesture
which had once been so familiar to him and now sparked
memory.
  In Avignon.
  A high wooden bed, a beamed ceiling with faded heraldic signs
painted on the sagging plaster, her hair, as she lay beneath him,
spread wide. like the rays of a symbolic sun across the sheet.
  `You should shave before doing this to a girl.' she said.
  'You have such delicate flesh. I didn't know I was going to do
this
- you tempted me from the narrow path of Just Friends.'
  'You lie.'
  `You have your own room.'
  She moved beneath him, stretching. arms reaching up to curl
round his shoulders and pull his head to hers. As her lips
touched
his. her tongue flicked across them.
  'It was too small. hot, over a garden full of bourgeois eating
ice creams.'
  He took her again. easily. slowly. gently. Then she rolled away
from him, her hands pulling her hair over her face. hiding.
  'Alice Arlington. I love you,' he said.
  She shook her hidden head. hands flat about her ears. 'No.' Her
voice was muffled. `You don't, please don't. Just like. Not
love. I love
Hugo.'
  'I like you. then. All right? I like you like. . . like. . .
what could
I possibly like you like. after this%'
  She rolled backwards, hands to head. dragging the heavy hair
upwards. lips wide in a grin. eyes clear.
  'A sister perhaps%' she said.
  'Incest in the family: '
  She pulled herself up on to her elbows. sat upright against the
heavy carved bedhead. swung the hair back. 'No. A moment of
mutual attraction. I'm a happily married woman.'
  'Happily married whore.'
  'Perhaps. But all good happily married women should be whores.
no? Part of the job. like cooking the breakfast. washing his
jockey-
pants. . . I love Hugo. I enjoy you. Okay?'
  'You really do that: Wash his underwear? Wifely touches. . .'
  She swung herself suddenly off the high bed, crossed to the
shuttered windows and pushed them open. Her body was lean.
small. Bones high-points at shoulders and pelvis. the heavy hair
swinging. For a moment she leaned against the window frame
looking down into the street below. arms crossed over breasts as
small and imodest as impudent buds. 'There's a man with a little
dog.
France Soir and a beret. It must be France.' She picked up a
dressing
gown from the floor, started towards the doorway. 'No. Of course
I don't wash his underwear. I'm not that wife. He didn't marry
me
for that. thank God. I'm going to the bathroom. The lavatory is
there. if you need it. and then you'd better dress, don't you
think: '
  'If you do%'
  'Yes I do. I'm calling Nanny in Sussex - and no cracks please-
in half an hour. The wifely touches. . .' She laughed suddenly,
shook
the hair behind her ears. The spark of memory died.
'Open and honest.' she said. 'I would have thought you'd be
pleased. Where have you been%'
  'Been:'
  'You left for a moment. I saw. Jet lag?'
  'Avignon.'
  `Oh. Oh that. Yes. Mousseline de brochet aux morilles at
Heily's.
Goodness yes. . . how one remembers delights like that! You won`t
get that tonight. Dubrovnik has two main dishes. his gazpacho and
something like a moussaka. . . but not tonight. Alaska crab. I'll
take
him a refill.'
  She got up and took a bottle of wine from the table. 'It wasn't
an
accident. you know. With Hugo. It was deliberate. He drove into
that truck quite deliberately in his white Maserati. They all
think
it was an accident. but I know it wasn't.'
  'How do you know%'
  'I must take this to Dubrovnik. The whisky is here. help
yourself.'
She went to the door and turned just as a young girl arrived. 'He
told me. "It'll be quick." he said. "No second thoughts." This
is
Clemency. Remember Jonathan Pool? Freshen his glass like an
angel.' And she left them.
  Clemency was almost as tall as her mother, trim corduroy
slacks,
a fairisle pullover. white silk shirt. her mother's heavy hair
tumbling. a small string of pearls round her neck.
  'We did meet.' he said. getting to his feet. 'Years and years
ago.
when you were five. I think.'
  She made a slight movement of a hand to indicate that he should
sit again, and said. 'Eight years ago. I almost remember. It was
most
frightfully hot and I was car-sick. and was it you who bought me
some lemons% With real leaves on them?'
  'It was I who did that.'
  'Then we have met. and I do remember. It's a scotch. isn't it.'
  When she had refilled his glass she sat upright on the arm of
the
settee, slightly above him. He felt squashed among the Indian
blankets. `So you know that I am Clemency? They call me Clemmy
at school. Sickening. The Americans are quite nice. I suppose.
but
they have to abbreviate everything. every name. It's their way
of
trying to make you feel integrated. or something. Cosy. they call
it.
I loathe it, personally, but there isn't much I can do. One
can't. can
one? Be too rude.'
  She crossed her legs thoughtfully, pulling neatly at the crease
of
her cords. `My sister. whom I don't think you will have met -
she's
nine - has completely swapped sides. I mean she has become an
American, literally. Become one. I find it so dreadfully
disloyal.'
  'To whom % '
  She looked at him with her mother's eyes, as yet untroubled:
cool,
clear. unafraid. now mildly surprised. 'To England. of course.
We
are English. you know. I keep telling her. but she doesn't give
a fig.
It's something I simply couldn't bring myself to do. Swap sides.'
  'I don't suppose, do you, that. . . what is her name. Hope. .
: '
  Clemency laughed politely. 'They call her Hoppy.' She sighed.
ran
the pearls round her neck once. 'I mean, really! But yes. it
should
be Hope.'
  'Well. I don't suppose that Hope has really swapped sides. do
you.
honestly: Don't you think that perhaps she's just trying to fit
in. so
to speak. with her schoolmates. . .'
  'It's possible. I didn't have to become a Yankee to do that.
But.
of course. she is quite young. Only nine.' Suddenly her face
broke
into a wide and delighted smile. `As a matter of fact, her Pool.
. .'
  'Jon will do. if you don't think it's too familiar.'
  'Not a scrap. Jon. As a matter of fact the boys rather like my
accent. I really do pretty well. frankly. Mind you. I'm choosy.
. . you
have to be here.'
  I bet you bloody well are, he thought. You are the spitting
image
of your mother; you won't come amiss.
  `what I will say. Jon, if you don't think I am being too
personal
noNþ, is that you have the most super voice. It's just glorious
to listen
to you. really.'
  'How very kind of you. Thanks.'
  'It's super. So English. I mean none of those dreadfully
flattened
vowels. that awful thing they do through their noses, you know:
Nasal. I believe that they do speak quite beautifully on the East
Coast. Almost like we do. . . . But your voice is like April
air.'
  `I think that you really are going a little too far now. . .'
  'Oh! I'm sorry. But what I mean is that after being cooped up
in school all day. with that nasal noise. and then coming home
and hearing old Dubrovnik droning on in that awful way he does.
you really sound. . . well. . .' suddenly she leant down and
shyly
touched his sleeve. her eyes smiling. lips slightly parted. `like
April
air.'
  Dear God! he thought, Alice has competition. Serious
competition.
  'do you think that one can "sound" like April air?' He was
well
aware that he was starting to flirt a little. Jet lag.
  She removed her hand slowly. 'Well. to me. April air does
sound.
Do you know what I mean: Chind in spring grass. lambs. the
cuckoo, birds singing. . . I mean that's April air, isn't it%'
  'I'll give you that, right.'
  'I just didn't say what I would have said until we were. ummm.
better acquainted. . . you know%'
  'And what would you have said then: '
  'Well I actually said it.' She got up and walked over to the
dying fire. picked up the bellows. 'Mother simply can't come to
terms
with
this fire. All she has to do is turn on the gas underneath. but
she
won't - or forgets. What I said was that your voice is like April
air.
It makes one breathe again, fresh. clean. lovely.' She turned
suddenly, the bellows in her hand. head to one side. `That's
all.'
Smiling.
  `Thank you,' he said. There wasn't much else he could say.
  Hope appeared at the door, a froth of broderie anglaise. White
socks and black patent leather pumps on her feet. her hair tied
in
two bows on either side. a pink and a blue.
  'Hi! We have company. I'm Hoppy. Who are you?'
  `I'm Jonathan Pool. Or Jon. Use which you like.'
  'I'll use Jon. that okay:. . . Hey. Clemmy. you killed the
fire!'
  'I have not killed, as you call it. the fire. It's gone out.'
  `Well light the gas for Pete's sake. I mean this room is
spooky. . .
don't we have any music?'
  'We did have Gershwin. It's just stopped,' said Jonathan.
  'Oh. jimminy-jim-john, Gershwin! Everything is so square in
this
house I could die.'
  'Well die.' said Clemency coldly. 'But before you do. bring me
a
lighter, or some matches and I'll light the fire.'
  'You like my dress%' asked Hope cheerfully. 'I put it on
especially
because Mother said we were having English people, and this is
kinda. well I don't know, it's kinda frilly, you know what I
mean?
Like the Queen wears. . .'
  `I am ravished.'
  'Great,' said Hope. `I hoped you would be. Here's the lighter,
and
don't go and blow us all up. we got cracked crab for dinner.'
  The gas bar under the sighing logs lit with a gentle plop! and
ten
small fingers of wavering yellow flame flickered uselessly
beneath
them.
  `They'll never catch. Never.' said Clemency. 'Wrong wood. It
should be eucalyptus.'
  Hope was clattering through a pile of cassettes. 'How's about
the
Rolling Stones: At least it's alive. You like the Rolling
Stones%'
  Before he could reply Clemency said, 'She'll kill you if you
play
that, it's what she calls Destructive Music. There's von Karajan.
Put
that on.'
'I mean that is just the pits!' said Hope disgustedly.'It's just
doom.        stooped to examine it.'He's all right. I guess.' she
said.'He's a friend
doom. doom. We're supposed to be having a party!'
              of our mother, and he cooks.'
Mahler drifted into the whitewashed-plank room, the fire
              Clemency came across the room and sat beside him.
her fingers
plopped: flames wavered.
              toying with the pearls at her neck.'He's got a wife
already. And
'Say. are you a very old friend of ours: ' said Hope, sitting
carefully        children. I understand. But we don't speak of
them. He makes
in one of the crushed mattress ticking chairs. `I mean. I don't
know.     þ    movies. Are you in movies too?'
Did you know my father%'
              `No. I just write.'
'Our father.' said Clemency.
              'What. write movies%'
'Well. did you%'
              `Books.'
'Yes I did. For a long time. years and years. Well. really quite
a       þ    'Oh! How civilized!' said Clemency.'Almost everyone
in this place
long time.'
         j    makes movies. It's so boring.'
'I'm nine. How come I don't remember you?'
         j    Hope had done whatever she had decided to do with
her left shoe
'I've known Jon for ages. haven't I: ' said Clemency, leaning
              and looked up sharply.'Clemency Arlington! Who went
to see Star
against the fake beam above the fireplace.
              Wars three times% You did! Who has a crush on Clint
Eastwood: You
'Ages.' said Jonathan.'Since you were five.'
              do! Boring! You are so awful. Just so awful.'
'I was just a baby then,' said Hope.'I guess that's why I don't
             'How long,' said Jonathan carefully, `have you known
Dubrovnik remember you, I'm a bit out of touch. you see, since
you all
came to live in
'I expect that's why.' said Jonathan.
              California.'
'He bought me lemons once.'
         þ    Clemency reached for his almost empty glass.'Would
you care
`Lemons!' said Hope in disgust.
         '    to finish that? I'll give you a refill.'
'I was quite ill, wasn't I% And they had real leaves on them.'
         þ    He finished the drink, handed her the glass.'No ice
and just a
'Big deal.' said Hope.
              titchy amount of water.'
'We were in France. You live there, don't you?'
         '    `Titchy!' said Hope.'What's titchy. for heaven's
sake?'
1 'I do.'
         þ    `It's an English word,' said Clemency grandly. `You
wouldn't
'In Paris?' said Hope. with some degree of interest. It was the
only      þ    know - it means very small. Doesn't it Jon?' The
smile with which
place she knew in France.
              she turned to him could have blinded him. he looked
away.
'No. In the south. A long way south. It's almost like here. But
not      þ    þ 'Slang word I suppose. Hope... not everyone knows
it,' he said.
quite.'
              'Except that I did.' said Clemency going over to
the drink table.
'Is it near, what is it. Yugoslavia? That's where Dubrovnik comes

      þ    'She's just scoring off me.' said Hope comfortably.
`I don't care.
from. He says it's quite like this. I mean they have lemons and
        `    We've known Dubrovnik for simply years and years.
well two
oranges.'
              anyway. Our father,' she emphasized the `our'
heavily,'brought
'No. It's quite far from there.'
         þ    him to stay one Christmas. He liked him. He said
he was a Pinko.
`Did you know Dubrovnik before this evening: ' said Clemency.
              You know what that means: It means a Commie. But
I don't think
'He's really Boris Something-or-other: I mean. an impossible
name.       '    he is really, he just had to be because he lives
wherever it is, and
you'd never be able to say it or even remember it. So we just
call       '    they are all Commie people. If you don't join
them they just shoot
him Dubrovnik.'
              you. I mean, you know... they're real mean. real
nasty. But not
'No. I never met him before. He seems very nice.'
              him. He was very kind to Mother. after the - you
know...' She got
Hope found something of intense interest on the toe of a shoe and

             up suddenly and went over to the tape deck. snapped
a switch.
Mahler died. 'That is the most miserable music in the whole
world.'
  Clemency came back with the drink. `Just a titchy amount of
water. Try it for size.'
  'After our father got killed.' said Hope and came back to sit
in the
chair she had left. fixing her hair ribbons.
  'Put your arms around me. honey. hold me tight. Huddle up and
cuddle up with all your might. um um. dum dee dum dee dum. . .'
Clemency's voice was clear, soft. true.
  `What in the name of goodness is that supposed to be?' said
Hope.
  'A song. Do you know. Jun. that tomorrow is Inauguration Day!
We, or rather I should say. they. are going to inaugurate their
President. He used to be a movie actor.' She tucked her hair
expertly
behind each ear, pursed her lips. 'Imagine!'
  'Isn't that part of the American Constitution: I mean that any-
one can grow up to become the President of the united States.
Clemency: '
  `Sure is,' said Hope cheerfully. 'Wowie! Here I come kids! Off
a
my
runway!'
  'I just think that this time they're carrying things a bit too
far,'
said Clemency.
  Alice reappeared in the doorway and came towards him with a
packet. 'Jon. This is yours, I think. You brought it with you -
left
it in the hall. Have my babies been looking after your needs?
liquid: '
  'Oh jimminy! Babies. Mommy, come on now. . .'
  'Mother or Alice. if you like. I will not be Mommy. Hope. get
that
into your addled head.' She poured herself some wine. 'Poor
Dubrovnik's up to the elbows in cucumber and tomato. It's a hell
of a mess to make. '
  Jonathan held the packet towards her. 'I brought this for you
as
a matter of fact. From London.'
  'Oh Jon! You've brought enough. Bread, and that gigantic basket
. . . why don't you two open it up, see what we have in the
treasure-
basket%' She was tearing the wrapping from a box of Bendicks
Bittermints.
  'I imagine you can get them anywhere on Rodeo Drive now.' he
said ruefully.
  'You can't.' said Alice. 'Anyway these are more precious. they
are
hand-made and hand-delivered.' She bent down and kissed his
head. 'Thank you.'
  'Candy,' said Hope flatly.
  `Not candy. Look.' Alice held the box towards her.
  'Hey! ' said Hope suddenly reviving interest. `Is that the
royal sign.
you know. . . By Appointment to Her Majesty the Queen! Oh Gawd!
The Queen eats these too?'
  'I imagine so, it says so. doesn't it%'
  Hope went on reading under her breath in a monotony of sound.
':'manufacturers - of- chocolate - Bendicks - Mayfair - Ltd -
Winchester.
Wow! Get that. . . it's just steeped in royalty.'
  'I didn't know.' said Clemency coldly. 'that Mayfair was
actually
in Winchester.'
  'I think you'll find that Mayfair is in brackets. in fact,'
said Jon.
  `Meaning what: '
  `Meaning that the shop is in Mayfair and the factory is in Win-
chester, okay: '
  'A bit cheaty. But okay.'
  'Can I have the box, when it's empty: ' said Hope. 'I mean can
you
imagine Esther Winckler's face when I show her a box the Queen
of England owned. . . I mean. it's too much!'
  `She didn't own it.' said Alice. 'I own it.'
  'Esther Winckler is such a schmuck she won't know the
difference. '
  'And don't use schmuck. I've told you before.'
  `Daddy didn't mind. He laughed.'
  A sudden intense silence spread across the room. In the kitchen
a tap ran. and china clinked.
  `Poor Dubrovnik,' said Alice, too quickly. 'Tomato pips and
cucumber peel everywhere - he's very fussy about his old
gazpacho.' Her face was suddenly tight, sharp: she took a good
sip
of
her wine. 'Which reminds me, Clemency, I haven't laid out the
little
bowls we have to use with it. . . for the croutons and so on. Get
them
darling, in the pantry-place.'
  'I don't remember them.' said Clemency.
  'Don't be dense, child. Top shelf on the right. little china
bowls,
they'll need a bit of a wash. Do that for me, will you: And lay
them
out. we're six.' And as Clemency left the room, straight-backed,
elegant. assured of herself. Alice took the box-lid from Hope.
'And
you could undo that yellow basket. see what's inside.'
  Hope ripped the crackly plastic wrapping off the flat-bottomed,

high-handled basket and stuffed it in among the dead logs: the
yellow flames caught: it curled. writhed and melted.
  'There's a pineapple. two bottles of white wine. there are some
crackers. English crackers. Jacob's. . . apples and cheese!' She
held
up a rectangular block. `Processed cheese! And there's another
bottle! '
  'A bottle,' said Jonathan. taking his eyes. for the first time.
from
Alice's drawn face. `What does the other bottle contain?
Champagne or Lake Arrowhead water?'
  Hope squinted at the label as if she was near-sighted. `It
says. it
says: Hine V.S.O.P. Cognac.'
  'Terrific!' said Jonathan. 'Or are you awash with brandy in
this
house. Alice%'
  'Not here, by God! No. Napa Valley Chablis is my limit. Hope.
take
the bottles and put them on the table. take the rest of the stuff
into
the kitchen. find a bowl for the fruit. then lay up your own
suppers,
if Dubrovnik is halfway through clear. will you?'
  'Will do.' Hope sighed and started putting the stuff back in
the
basket. 'That's our sign for dismissal. We don't get to eat with
you-
all. we eat in the kitchen among all the gook and stuff. Like
slaves.'
  'And hurry up about it.' said Alice. `It's almost eight thirty
and
I don't want you hanging about when the others arrive.'
  'Not even in my best Saks broderie anglaise?'
  'Not even in that. Get on now.'
  'I'll get - dismissal, see?' said Hope.
  'Little girls should be seen and not heard.' said Alice,
springing
Mahler from the player and sliding in another cassette.
  'Yeah. but we don't even get to be seen.' said Hope going
through
the door with the ugly basket. trailing ribbon and shredded
paper-
packing as she went.
  `Go on, out,' said Alice. She pressed a switch. a soft hissing.
the
music came in. 'Cole Porter Selections. Do you awfully mind: I
mean
it's just background stuff. no one listens.' She sat in her far
corner
of the settee.
  'You are damned lucky. you know. With those two.'
  'I know. I know. I really do know. Sometimes it's a hell of a
problem. but as I know that it's going to be a problem for some
years
to come. I manage to handle things. You have to. or go under.'
  'I can tell you one thing for sure. you're going to have
problems
with Mata Hari. I can tell you that right off.'
  She laughed. `Clemency? Right. A problem now. And only
thirteen. well. . . nearly fourteen. The competition is amazing
- jealousy
showing its little horns already. at that age. Precocious? God
help
me when she hits sixteen. She'll have me out of the ring in ten
seconds fiat.' She held her glass up to the light. squinted
through
it. 'Of course she was Hugo's girl. Not mine. Adored him from the
start. I somehow got stranded with my happy idiot Hope.'
  'Hope.' said Jonathan. 'isn't such a bad thing to be stranded
with.'
  'Are we talking academically? Or about my daughter: '
  'Both really. '
  'Yes. Yes. she makes me laugh, she's a good child. Hope. But
I
mean. what about those names: Absolutely typical Hugo. Nothing
to do with me. I had no choice. Nothing as simple as Rose or
Grace.
He chose names which were. I think, symbols for him. Not for me,
or the children, just for himself. I often thought so in the
past: today
I am convinced. Hope: a desire for something and the feeling that
it could, quite possibly. be fulfilled. and Clemency: leniency
or
mercy.' She shrugged her shoulders under the man's shirt she was
wearing. 'All hopelessly involved, of course. my poor out-of true
Hugo.'
  `And you loved him. I know that. Remember it all too clearly.'
  She looked at him directly. her eyes steady, one finger tapping
the
rim of her glass. 'Goodness I loved him. There was no one else.
For
loving. No one.'
  `I know.'
  'Poor Jonathan. I'm not patronizing. Really. I mean poor.
Truth-
fully. Women are quite batty sometimes. I was. Hugo was a superb
lover, number one: a rotten husband. number two: an amusing
father. when he remembered: a quite brilliant poet. when he took
the trouble: but above all. and this you must remember yourself.
he
was the most staggering. glorious. amazing fun. Sheer fun. For
that
I think that people forgave him just about everything. at least
in our
early days. and there was a hell of a lot of forgiving to do.
Perhaps
there'll be more. . . sweet God I hope not. . . and if there is,
then we'll
see. But none of that mattered to me. I was utterly bewitched by
his
joy, his fun. his beauty. his madness. the insane ideas he could
construct, and I use the word advisedly, even his restlessness
and
his terrifying moods. But. God! He was the most fun. the most fun
anyone was. . . as a young man.'
  ' I remember. '
  'I know that you do. There was something. . . did I ever tell
you?
Or perhaps you were one of the evil planners even? Something he
did, a triumph!'
  'No. I was in on some. not many. nothing I think to do with
you. .
  `This was to do with me all right. Once. when we were
a-courting.
as they say. the most enormous hearse arrived outside my parents'
house in Chester Square. I mean it really was enormous. Smothered
in wreaths, this huge Daimler hearse with a coffin. and mourners
with top hats on their knees! Can you imagine the consternation
of my papa! The Major-General who hated larkin' about. . . it was
stupefying. One of the men in black gave him a card. or an
envelope.
which was addressed to me. I remember opening it with terror. I'd
no idea what was happening. Mother was whimpering about all the
fuss, and the card said. 'With love from Hugo Arlington. Please
Open As Soon As Possible.' And I said to the man. almost unable
to breathe. "Open what?" and he said. with a polite cough. "The
coffin. miss. otherwise you'll have a real corpse on your hands.
I
fear." And of course it was Hugo. Inside a white coffin, mark
you,
with a dozen bottles of champagne round him. covered in camellias
or gardenias or some damn flower. plastic of course. . . the
final
touch.'
  Jonathan was laughing with her. 'No. not that one. I never knew
about that one from him, I heard the stories. mind you. What did
you do: Why all the theatricals%'
  'Oh. Well. You knew Hugo. I'd said No to him time and time
again. He made me laugh all right. but I didn't think that was
quite
enough reason to marry him. even though the bed side of things
was really pretty terrific. But I just said No. I mean No. And
of course
he wasn't used to that. Hugo didn't like the word No. Ever. Hence
the theatricals. as you call them. He arrived in his coffin, in
the most
glorious tail suit. and said that if I would marry him he'd leap
out
immediately and we could drink all the champagne. or else. and
this
was very typical I was to discover. he'd cut his wrists.'
  'Christ!'
  `And my dear. he had a very neat cut-throat razor stuffed up
the
cuff of his coat. I mean it was completely dotty. Crazy. It was
the
most momentous proposal a girl ever received.'
  'And you accepted.'
  'What else.' She picked a piece of red wool off her knee. a
long
thin strand, and rolled it into a ball between her fingers.
  'But a razor.' said Jonathan. 'Why a razor. . . why would he
think
of such a thing%'
  'It was all perfectly worked out. and he said it was very
convenient because. if I said no, they just had to put the lid
on again
and he'd be all ready for Putney Vale. . . I mean it was utter
lunacy.
And of course he jumped out and scattered his bloody plastic
gardenias all over Chester Square and we humped the bottles into
the house and even my bewildered. unsmiling father had to laugh.'
  She lay back in the corner of the settee, one leg curled
underneath
her. head resting on the high back among the rumpled Indian
blankets. She was weeping. 'Of course.' she said, 'it was a small
fortune. I mean it cost him that. I don't know how he planned it,
or conned people. or who they were even. . . they were all in the
act, that was certain. Madness.'
  'Do you want a handkerchief?' said Jonathan.
  'Oh Lord. Am I snivelling. . .%'
  'Without sound,' he said.
  She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her shirt. 'A silly thing
to do.
They just come. I don't make a noise, no boo-hoo stuff. . . it
is just
the remembering. Odd. '
  'And anyway, you got married%'
  'No. Not right away. I accepted, and like the well brought up
young woman I was I made him wait. I promised. but he didn't get
a wild runaway canter for his pains. I was designing for a nice
little
Japanese fag at the far end of the King's Road. We were highly
successful. I had exceptionally bright prospects personally. .
. it was
the start of the sixties. . . just into them, the swinging London
bit,
the never-had-it-so-good time. And we hadn't.'
  She poked a finger under the strap of her sandals. 'No. I
didn't
capitulate right away. I was still a little bit scared of him in
a way,
and my parents didn't really approve. I mean as far as they were
concerned there was no "family" behind him. He was out of no-
where. Then we went away for a month together. . . he had a
rather
super old Bentley. We drove down to Italy, ate in all the best
restaurants, stayed in the best hotels - Rome. Naples. Siena.
Perugia
- we even went through the hell of Capri for a few days. and then
one evening. on our way home to England. we were eating in a
tacky
little bar on the harbour at Portofino and he suddenly said.
"Will
you marry me, Alice. please?" and I said. "Yes". And that was
it.'
  'And Alice was hooked.'
  'Alice was hooked. And happy. I still am. Not happy I don't
mean.
just "hooked".'
  'But all the money, did it never occur to you that he hadn't
got
any%'
  'No. Because he always seemed to have a mass. I don't know how.
or where, he got it. I didn't even ask. Too in love, as the song
goes.
was I.'
  `All I know is that he did get paid a hell of a bit for some
of his
early work: the best. frankly. in my humble opinion. He didn't
brag
about it. just made bloody certain that one knew. I do remember
him telling me that he had met this simply amazing girl who was
wildly grand. '
  Alice laughed. balanced her glass on her knee. 'Oh come off it,
Jon! He thought that anyone was grand if they had a house in town
and another in Sussex. and that I could have been presented at
Court with a bunch of feathers stuck in my hair. . . I suppose,
in
those days, I was grand. But I didn't get the ostrich-feathers,
the
Sussex house was a ruin, and we were about as grand as any
retired
Major-General with dry rot in the roof and a whacking great over-
draft could be. . . still I knew he was impressed.'
  'It was so funny how he kept you under wraps, so to speak.
Never
let any of his old friends meet you. if you remember. until the
wedding.'
  'Well. I suppose he was a bit suspicious - of you anyway, far
too
attractive. '
  'But it was a bit dotty.'
  'He was frightfully busy cultivating my friends. Moving up and
  onward. taking every invitation that might better him socially.
He
admitted it freely. He just dropped his old crowd. although I do
confess that he spoke often of you. and with affection.'
  'That was kind of him. at least.'
  `But he said that you lived in Kenya. I mean. why would he do
that when he knew absolutely for a fact that you lived at the
other
end of the Fulham Road: We could have run into each other a
thousand times. It was madness.'
  `Not to him. And if we had met by chance. because I was not in
your sort of world, weeviling away with my books and so on. he'd
have cut me, pretended he didn't know me. or just crossed the
road.
I've been cut by Hugo in my time. It was always an extraordinary
experience. The absolute deadpan face, the positive dislike.
Odd.'
  'It was the kind of danger which he enjoyed. I suppose you can
call it that%'
  'Suppose so. I remember that he told me he had started
negotiations to do a book on Modigliani. I think? and that his
publishers
had given him a terrific advance to go off to France and Italy.
. . that
was also the time that I first heard of the "amazing" girl. You.'
  'And that's where the money came from for the proposal trip!
Modigliani never got a look in.' She got up and wandered across
to
the black fireplace and the ten little pale yellow flames
wandering
in the draught, leant her head against the fake beam, prodded the
dead logs with a foot. `How long did you know Hugo. Jon% He never
really said. I never asked. And you were always rather
clam-like.'
  'After he came down from Cambridge. Not longer.'
  'My word. Quite a long time. I suppose I shouldn't say this.
but
did you know that his real name was Arthur Sean Sproule, that his
father was an Irish God-knows-what and his mother a trainee nurse
at St Thomas's. and that they lived, and he was born, in a semi-
detached house in Herne Hill. Did you?'
  'No,' said Jon quietly. 'No. I didn't know that. I only knew
him
as Arlington.'
  'He picked that name when he was taken to tea at the Ritz by
a
rather unscrupulous gentleman who ran a now defunct literary
magazine and who thought that Arthur Sean Sproule. on the
strength of the stuff with which he had been bombarded. might
well
be the new James Joyce. He went in for the boyish looks too. I
gathered. but lost out heavily on both accounts. However. Hugo
Arlington was born that afternoon.'
  'I had no idea.'
  'You weren't supposed to. No one was. He dropped Mum and
Dad and Herne Hill like hot bricks. never to be mentioned again.'
  'When did you find out: I mean. not that it really matters. .
.'
  'No. it didn't matter a bit to me. I found out at marriage. It
is a
very inconvenient business sometimes. All sorts of little things
which were swept under various carpets emerge again. Oh! You
needn't worry! I'm not Mrs Sproule. He changed his name by deed-
poll almost as soon as he had finished his tea that day!' She
turned
away from the fake beam. 'Poor Hugo. He trod such a dangerous.
delicate line in life.'
  From the hall the sound of muffled door chimes.
  Hope's voice yelled out. `I'll get it! It's the company!
Trillions of
them. at least two cars.'
  'Ding dong dell,' said Alice. 'Pussy's down the bloody well.
I wish
they weren't here. I wish I wasn't such a bore. They are sweet
and
I like them. but I was just getting under way. wasn't I? Thank
you
for bearing with me. I suppose that I still miss him dreadfully.
I'm
terribly lost. I pretend that I am not. try not to let it show.
but I know
I want him back again. even though I know that he went out of my
life, as far as loving goes. a long time past: but I never went
out of
his. and I know more than anyone what an utter. utter bastard he
was.' She started towards the door. 'Makes no difference.' She
smiled at him, a neat. bleak movement of her lips. straightened
her
shirt. put the empty glass down on the table and went into the
hall.
  He sat perfectly still: I never had a chance. Not a hope in
hell. Why
did I ever think that I might? So now you know: the years are
fled
and all hope too. Cole Porter ended, rattled. whispered to a stop
in
the machine.
  Outside doors were slamming. cars revving up, reversed. swung
about. driven away, people were talking and laughing. Hope's
voice
high with pleasure rising far above them all: 'It's too much!
It's just
the most! I'm amazed. . . how did you know I wanted one? I lost
mine
somehow. Thank you. . .'
  He rose to his feet as the hall filled with voices and figures
and
a slight. freckle-faced woman in her late thirties hurled into
the
room as if she had been thrown to him from a runaway truck.
  'Oh! God!' she said. 'I am a wreck, a total wreck! I mean just
look
at me. all loose ends. I'm falling apart. exhausted, but
exhausted.
Ballet class. hence the costume.' She wore a swaddle of woollen
clothing. A long. knitted scarf wound round her neck, knee-
warmers, sagging, black woollen tights. a short coat that had
seen
better days on the back of some sailor, a handkerchief knotted
on her
head. mittens. In one hand she held a large glass jar, in the
other
a blue canvas tote-bag with `San Francisco' printed on the side.
  `Who are you? I'm Sybil Witt. I dance and I sing. in a
desultory
way. . . "Let me entertain you. . ." I can't shake your hand. I'm
loaded like a pack-mule.'
  'I'm Jonathan Pool,' he said. 'I write.'
  'Scripts?' Her eyes narrowed.
  'Books. '
  'Jesus! Intellect! I adore intellect because I have so little
myself.
Jonathan dear. be sweet, give me a hand with this crap. Just hold
out your arms and Auntie will peel it all off for you.' Suddenly
sheù
turned back towards the hall and yelled, 'Alice Arlington! I know
you didn't invite me, but don't worry: I brought my own food and
I only drink Perrier water.' She started to unwind the long
scarf.
handed it to him. then the coat.
  'Do you call this a "coatee" in England? It's a bit short. Navy
surplus. I believe it's kinda cute, and now my clutch-bag. Would
you believe my whole face is in there: I just never get the time
to
stick it on, and this. . .' she held up the glass jar, '. . . is
my dinner.
see? Nuts: I mean nuts. I am the one and only original Squirrel
Woman. . . I got Brazils here, I got pistachio. hazel. walnuts:
all
kinds. Protein. . . do you know about protein: It's
revolutionized my
life.' She shook the jar. 'This is just so simple. Anything you
think
is a nut - apart, that is. from myself - is in this jar. I even
got
pignolias here. I'll go and show Boris. He gets so uptight when
he's
cooking the meal. which he most often is - Alice couldn't bake
a
fortune cookie.' She left him, colliding instantly with Alice on
the
way out. 'Don't let that intellectual out of your sight,' she
said. `He's
holding everything I own, even my face. Look, my dinner!'
  'Syb.' said Alice. 'You're completely nutty.'
  'I loathe puns!' said Sybil from the hall.
  'Unintentional. Sorry.'
  'Anyway. it is the only way to be, to get you through life in
this
goddamned town. '
  'Where is Boris% In his kitchen. . .'
  'Yes. With the kids and Irina.'
  Jonathan dumped his wardrobe carefully on the settee. put the
tote-bag beside it.
  `I'm terribly bad at formal introductions in a crowd.' said
Alice.
'I even forgot my own sister's name in the middle of Harrods
once.'
  He turned as she moved beside him. Behind her two hesitant
people: a tall, elegant man with a pale. amused face and tightly
curled grey hair beginning to recede from a noble brow: beside
him.
smiling uncertainly. a dark-haired young woman in a white cotton
dress.
  'But I'll try.' said Alice. 'This is. . .' she paused. flushed.
laughed.
'Pole: '
  'Pool. ' said Jonathan.
  She buried her face in her hands. 'God! I've done it again! I
told
you I would. What on earth is it with me? I've known Jonathan.
. .
Pool. . . for a hundred years!'
  `One loves you, Alice.' said the elegant man. `But one does
find
you incredibly disconcerting. You manage to engender an
atmosphere of doubt and unease about you. I have known. for at
least
sixty-seven years. who I am. But dare I be sure% Can I be
certain?
Am I not who I have thought I was and shall you relegate me with
one brisk dismissal to the hideous anonymity of this dreadful
city
of Los Angeles? My name was Geoffrey Nettles,' he said. `but can
I
be certain: And this was Lea, my daughter.'
  Jonathan took the hand she offered him, which felt. in his. as
warm and as fragile as the folded wings of a bat. He was frankly
overwhelmed by the vivid smile, the dark eyes sparking with
laughter. the lips parted in pleasure.
  'My father is also quite disconcerting. I might add. It is not
poor
Alice's prerogative. I think that. at this very early stage Mr.
. . Pool.
I should perhaps explain that although his name is indeed
Nettles.
mine is Rooke.' she said. 'With an "e".'
  'No blood ties,' said Nettles.
  'Not even father,' said Lea. 'Guardian covers it. I think.'
  'Bequeathed to me,' said Nettles sadly. `At a very early age
by her
parents. A thoughtless gesture which absolutely ruined my life.
However. one does one's duty.'
  'Really frightfully well. Speaking for myself,' said Lea. `And
if that sounds at all conceited. it is not meant to be. I only
wished to imply
that I was fed and watered and schooled most correctly. And
sometimes allowed to go to concerts or even the theatre. It
wasn't
such a hideous experience. I survived.'
  She was smiling and it was only when she gently disengaged her
hand from his that Jonathan let it go. Jet lag has hit me. he
thought.
Music was playing again. and Hope and Clemency were coming
towards him dragging a large woman in a grey dress. fluttering
with
yellow ribbons. He thought that perhaps it might be wiser to pass
out; but the clear. cool voice of Clemency stilled panic.
  `Jon. This is Irina Miratova. She's Russian, and quite possibly
my
very best friend. aren't you Irina: '
  Irina Miratova was stuffing ribbons into a large black bag
which
hung from her arm. 'I cannot tell. How can I tell?' she said.
  'She's a countess too!' said Hope.
  Irina hit her hard with the black bag. `Hush! Child. . . such
vulgarity before a stranger!'
  'He's not a stranger. He's a very old friend,' said Clemency.
  `We have not been introduced. yet. So he is a stranger to me.'
said
Irina.
  'Jonathan Pool. and he writes.'
  `I am most happy to make your acquaintance,' said Irina. 'You
know what all these ribbons are for?'

  'No...'
  'The release of the Iranian hostages. It must be soon. don't
you
think? Perhaps even tomorrow? We inaugurate a new President. Mr
Pool. . . don't you think that it would be fitting if, when he
takes
his oath. they release those poor creatures at the same time? In
the
circus of American politics it is not enough to have just a
clown: one
must have a big act to follow him. Reasonable?'
  'I suppose so. Why yellow ribbons%'
  'Oh! come on. Jon. . . there's a song. don't you know it?' said
Hope
and sang: `I'll tie a yellow ribbon to the old oak tree. . .'
  'I appreciate neither the song nor your voice. Hope. Both are
sentimental.' said Irina pleasantly. `But then I suppose that I
also
am sentimental% To tie yellow ribbons on my poinsettias.' She
turned to Jonathan with a shrewd smile. 'I have no oak tree, and
I cannot celebrate the first act in the circus. But I will do for
the second, if they have arranged it for tomorrow, as I am sure
they
have. We'll see.' With a polite inclination of her white head.
improbably crowned with an untidy brown plaited chignon. she left
him and moved away murmuring, `A little vodka, my darlings.
Who has a little vodka for Irina%'
  'She lives in a fantastic house.' said Clemency. `It's falling
into the
sea day by day but she won't budge. Each time eve have a
torrential
rainstorm a bit more of the cliff slides down into the ocean. I
think
where she lives is called the slide area, and it's doing just
that. They
keep on trying to move her out. but she won't. She's been there
for
hundreds of years. She's in constant pain. Arthritis. But she
won't
let it show ever.'
  `She's very splendid.'
  `You remember that I told you that your voice sounded like,
ummm. well. like April%'
  'I do indeed,' he said gravely.
  'Well. Irina's voice sounds to me like December. You know%
Sleighs skimming over the snow, the horse's bells jingling. ice
crackling. birch trees furred with frost.'
  `Clemency. Is that yours% Or is it paraphrased Pushkin'
  She looked at him flatly. `I don't know what you mean.'
  'It's very romantic anyway.'
  'I am romantic. I am desperately romantic. It is quite the
hardest
thing to be in this ghastly city, and no one is going to take it
away
from me.'
  `I honestly don't think that anyone would dare!'
  She laughed, touched his arm. turned with a frown of anger as
Alice called her. 'Clemency? The little bowls for the croutons%
You
know I did ask you. . .'
  'They're all ready. Coming,' said Clemency. 'I'd better get
them,
excuse me.'
  She left him as Sybil started rummaging about among her piled
effects on the settee.
  'Gimme, gimme. my clutch-bag. Your dilimer is about to be
announced. You know. the moment Boris takes off that damned
apron and slicks his hair he really does look terrifically
ballsy. No
wonder Alice is hooked on him.' She found the bag. pulled the
knotted handkerchief from her head. Her hair was the colour of
pink
brass, spiked as a hedgehog. `Hair's a mess, right: Wigs. I get
to wear
wigs in my act and having this hair is a great help - you just
pull
'em on like hats. No problem. Here's Boris with his gazpacho.
It's
all so damned reverend you'd really think that he had every
cucumber personally blessed and made the stock from holy water.'
  `It's all vegetable. isn't it? You could eat that: '
  'Uhuh. I'm not into vegetarianism. honey. Just hitting the
proteins. And I was not asked to dine. I know the rules. So I'll
sit and
watch you all eat and chew my nuts.'
  Boris had set the big bowl in the middle of the table and had
begun
to ladle the soup into smaller ones for Clemency and Hope, with
care
and obvious affection.
  Irina, her large black bag hanging from the crook of her elbow.
was trying to fix a yellow ribbon bow to her hair. Nettles stood
attentively beside her holding a glass of vodka.
  'You need. I think. a longer hairpin.' said Lea. 'A longer
hairpin.
Look, let me try. . .' She took the bow in slender fingers.
twisted it.
bent it. fixed it with precision in the untidy brown chignon on
Irina's head. then stood back, arms clasped before her. `There!'
she
said. 'Perfect. Secure as you like. It will stay as it is even
in a force-
nine gale.'
  'I am unlikely to encounter such a phenomenon.' said Irina. 'Is
it becoming: ' She took her glass from Nettles and drained it in
one
long swallow.
  `Most.' said Nettles. 'Like a tiara. A perfect symbol of
freedom.'
  'Hah!' said Irina, looking vaguely about for replenishments.
'It is
supposed to be a symbol of welcome, I am told. If it falls, it
will not
be welcome in Boris's soup. Like all his countrymen, his humour
is heavy - there is no gaiety in those Slavs unless they are
drunk.
Or they have assassinated a king.'
  Lea turned suddenly and looked at Jonathan. and laughed. He
discovered. to his consternation, that although he laughed
himself.
he was quite unable to hold her look, and began to examine the
bottom of his glass with close attention. He looked up just as
Hope
and Clemency were leaving the room.
  'And cracked crab to follow. Yum yum yummy!' said Hope. and
then. setting down her bowl. she thrust her arm towards Alice.
'Hey. I forgot. Remember the bracelet I lost% My lady-bug one%
Well.
Irina bought me another. She found it in some drugstore in
Pacific
Palisades. Isn't it great: '
  'Great,' said Alice sharply. 'Now take your bowl and let us get
on
with dinner.'
  'Alice. my dearest child. shall we sit anywhere?' said Nettles.
  Alice looked up from placing a brimming bowl. `Not quite so
full,
Dubrovnik darling. Geoffrey, you sit here. Irina dear here. Lea
and
Jonathan on that side.' She looked across to Sybil who was
sprawled
in a chair by the dead fire reading a newspaper. 'Syb: Syb.
there's
a mass of room. come on over.'
  'Happy as a clam,' said Sybil. 'I'm reading Misty Layne's
review,
she opened last night.'
  'Good: ' said Alice, setting a bowl before Nettles.
  'Well, with a review like this, honey, she doesn't need legion-
naire's disease.'
  Alice suddenly took Boris's head between her two hands and
kissed him firmly on the lips. 'My beloved Slavic cook. What
would
I do without you: '
  Dubrovnik wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, grinned.
lifted a big pepper-mill. 'Pepper.' he said. 'Lotsa pepper is
good for
this. You like: '
  Jonathan was curious to discover that this overt display of
affection caused him no pull of regret. no muted thrust of
jealousy. as
such actions had in the past. After so many years; more than he
cared to admit to, these things had suddenly disappeared. He took
his place beside Lea.
  'Have you won something wonderful?' she said.
  'Won something?'
  'You look very smug and happy.'
  'Smug? Oh Lord! Probably jet lag is catching up on me: it makes
one look pretty silly.'
  'I didn't mean smug to sound rude. I should have said happy.
Not
silly. Not smug.'
  'Well. I'll tell you what I think has happened. I think that
a ghost
has been laid. right this very moment. Or that very moment
rather.'
  'A ghost: I know about ghosts. Was it a very bad one?'
  'Pretty bloody sometimes.'
  'But you think that it's gone now?' She reached for her spoon.
  'I think that it's gone.'
  'That's marvellous. What a relief! So. in fact. you have won
something%'
  `I'm not absolutely certain. but I think so. yes.'
  She looked at him with a sudden. swift. turn of her head. the
spoon halfway to her lips. looked down again, prodding the
vegetables in her bowl. and when she looked back at him he was
overwhelmed with happiness to see that she was smiling.

chapter 2.
Alice

Apart from the weary plop! plop! of the wavering gas jets, the
room
was as still and silent as an empty church. She stood dead
centre,
legs apart. arms at her sides, hands clenched into fists, nails
pressing
into her palms. head bowed.
  The moment I dread. The loneliness.
  Somewhere on San Vicente, or Sunset, a fire siren wailed: grew
louder. came closer, veered. faded, was gone.
  She turned, put off the gas, drew the steel spark-curtain
across
the dead fire. snapped off the tape deck and the lamps in the
sitting
area. leaving only the fake oil-lamp hanging over the
dining-table
to cast a cold. shadowy glitter across the debris of the evening.
Crumpled napkins. a scatter of dirty glasses, the bottle of
brandy
two
thirds empty. Irina's bow.
  'I think that it is uncomfortable. I don't feel that it is
becoming.
I will remove it. It is perhaps more a Star of David than a
yellow
bow: ' She bowed her handsome head towards Nettles. 'Will you
assist me: '
  He had little opportunity to refuse, with her head almost in
his
lap. and so he did.
  'I was considering how splendid you looked. Irina. like a
light-
house.'
  'Hah!' she said. 'God! I've been called some things in my time.
but
never, as far as I am aware. a lighthouse.' They had laughed as
she
wrestled with pins and tumbling chignon.

  There was no echo now in the ugly room. She picked up the
brandy bottle, switched off the lamp, went into the kitchen.
Wreck-
age. Beloved Boris. Too big for so small a space. too volatile
a cook
for so confined an area. She wondered who had designed the thing.
Narrow as a coffin: obviously someone who only made coffee, or
opened a tin.
  Wooden spoons. plates. dirty bowls. an apron and oven-cloths
dropped anywhere. a packet of salt. hastily opened, spilled. left
to
lie in a puddle of milk. Mechanically. without thought. she took
a
pinch and threw it over her shoulder: for luck. Put the brandy
in
a cupboard from which three recipe books instantly fell: she
kicked
them under the table.
  Jupiter could deal with all this tomorrow: if Jupiter arrived.
that
was to say. There was no knowing these days. She was a law unto
herself. and had been ever since the cataclysmic day that her
beloved Julie-Mae had been taken by the Lord. Or so it was
supposed.
Hoped. For no one really knew. She had just gone away. 'Why He
punish me: I ain't done the least little thing wrong,' she said.
`What
I do He punish me like this? I worship! Yea Lord I worship You!
And
You gone take my child. Where she go? Where she went? That's the
bad part. Not to know. That's the punishment of Hell. oh Lord!
No
one can find her; no cops, no Chapel people: we all look. and no
sign.
Why He punish so cruel? Why she go so silent?'
  Why indeed. Poor Jupiter. Poor all of us. Poor me.
  Beyond the kitchen in this ill-designed house, the long passage
which led down to her bedroom at the back of the place; the
children's rooms on either side, dark. emphasizing, curiously,
her
bleakness, even though unlike Jupiter she knew that they were
there. asleep. breathing. part of her. Her life.
  She moved quietly past the half-open doors. Clemency called.
`I'm
awake! '
  'Oh darling! At this time: It's long after midnight. Was there
too
much noise: '
  'No. I'm just awake. Wait. I'll put on my lamp.' Clemency
rustled
in the darkness; a soft pink glow on a hideous Minnie Mouse lamp.
  'I don't think you could hear much at this end of the house.
There
are two doors between you and the sitting room.'
  Clemency was sitting up. one arm across her forehead. shielding
her eyes from the sudden light, the other across her chest. 'It
wasn't
the party noise. I didn't hear that. Just. well. I've got a lot
of
whirling going on in my head. You know what I mean? Thinking.'
  'Bad thinking%'
  'Some of it. I'm not tired.'
  'I'm dead.' said Alice.
  `Could you sit down for a moment. please. Mother?' Clemency
patted the edge of her bed. 'For a moment.'
  The request was so unusual that Alice sat immediately, took her
daughter's hand in her own. `What bad things were you thinking
of: '
  'Well. not so much bad as difficult.'
  'Can I help: '
  'I don't know.' Clemency withdrew her hand and looked at the
Minnie Mouse lamp. `Perhaps.'
  'Try me.'
  'I expect you'll laugh.'
  'I don't see why I should.'
  'Neither do I. But people do.'
  `I'm not people, am I% I hope, anyway.'
  'Well. there are two things.' Clemency folded her arms behind
her
head, resting against the wooden headboard of the bed.
  'First one % '
  'Will you promise me, faithfully. that when I die you'll have
me
buried at Farthing Hall: '
  'Clemency darling! For God's sake. . .'
  'I knew that you'd laugh.'
  'Darling girl, I'm not laughing. I'm just absolutely shattered
that
you mind so much. Do you really hate it here so terribly? Do
you?'
  'Will you promise me faithfully?'
  'I promise. All right. Of course I do. But, darling, we won't
have
to face such a dreadful thing for years. you're still very young.
. .'
  'How can you tell% Like Julie-Mae? She was much younger than
me. How can you tell: '
  Alice shook her head, ran her fingers through her hair, brushed
them over her face, digging into her cheeks. 'Okay. I promise.
But
remember. we don't know about Julie-Mae. . .'
  'It makes it easier if I know that. one day, I'll go back to
England. For ever.'
  'I really didn't know you hated it here so. I am very ashamed.'
  'You needn't be. I didn't want to make a fuss. but I'm glad you
promised.'
  `Well I do. And what else? You said there were two things%'
  'Oh yes.' Clemency stared up at the ceiling. `The second thing
is
that I am in love.'
  `Why did you think I'd laugh about that? I've been in love too,
remember. I know what it's like. It's not a funny thing. Why
would
I laugh: '
  `Because.' said Clemency, 'he's very old. Terribly old.'
  'Old: '
  'As old as you are. Probably older.'
  `That's a problem,' said Alice evenly. 'I do see. Would I know
him: '
`Very well. '
'Then who: '
  'Jonathan Pool is who.'
  'Jonathan: Here tonight?'
  'Here tonight. I'm in love.'
  It occurred to Alice that perhaps if she leant her back against
the
bedhead it would ease her aching body, and possibly afford a
feeling
of mutual comfort to her daughter. She wasn't absolutely certain.
But at least she would then no longer be looking at the tense.
pale
face. and the anxious eyes pretending that they weren't. So she
tried. Clemency shifted slightly. but said nothing. So far so
good.
They lay together in the glow from the Minnie Mouse lamp looking
at the ceiling.
  'My back is absolutely breaking. You don't mind, do you?
Sharing
your bedhead % '
  `Not in the least. I'm glad you didn't laugh.'
  'Well how could I possibly laugh about something which is so
very serious for you? Falling in love. being in love, is nothing
to joke
about. I can understand how you feel. He is very attractive.'
  'Terrifically. It's his voice. of course; that really is
amazing.'
  'Yes. He has a very pleasant voice.'
  'That's what I thought. Pleasant. How old is he: He said he's
known you for simply years and years.'
  'Well, old. I have to admit that. In comparison to you.'
  'That's the main trouble.'
'It is a point worth considering.'
'Is he married: '
'He was. Divorced.'
'Children%' A hint of unease in the question.
  'No children.'
  'That's a relief. Two obstacles out of the way at least.'
  'From that point of view., said Alice. 'he's perfectly
eligible.'
  'By being unencumbered. you mean: '
  'Well. yes. I suppose that's what I mean.' She looked at her
hands.
`My fingernails! God! Broke this one wrestling with that damned
cracked crab. I'll have to get a file. You're fourteen. aren't
you?'
  `Almost. As good as. People get married at fifteen, of course.
It's
not so long.'
  'No. a year I suppose.'
  'In India.' said Clemency, stretching her arms towards the
ceiling.
'they get married at ten. sometimes. Did you know: '
  'Yes. Yes. I knew. Arranged marriages. But I don't think that
the
rule applies in America. Yet.'
  'God!' said Clemency. `I hate America.'
  'Well you really shouldn't, Clem. It's been wonderfully kind
to
you and to me. and Hope. It's the most generous country in the
world.'
  `It's his voice really,' said Clemency, folding her arms and
ignoring
any possible plea on behalf of America. `It's so gentle, very.
. .
seductive, I think.'
  'Are you any good at mental arithmetic% I'm hopeless. . .'
  'Not terribly. Why%'
  'Well, I was trying to work out that when you are, say, well.
. .
twenty-one or two. . '
  'Yeuch!' said Clemency. 'Twenty-one or two! That's years away.
Twenty-two! I mean that's almost at death's door.'
  'But iF you avoided death's door and got to be twenty-two. I
think.
but I can't quite be certain because I'm a bit silly tonight. but
I think
that Jonathan would be. oh I don't know. . . knocking his middle
fifties. He was younger than Daddy. you know:,
  There was a profound silence from the slight figure beside her.
Alice made a move. sat up, looked at her hands again. `I must get
a file: this nail catches in everything. . . awful in wool. Don't
you hate a broken nail catching in things% Shivers down my
spine.'
  'Knocking his fifties' said Clemency. 'You mean that%'
  'Who? Oh. Jonathan. Something like that. I think he's about my
age. forty-something.'
  'It's a bit boring.'
  'Well. As I said. You do have a problem.' She eased herself
away.
'I'm off to my bed now. I am really bushed. Try not to let things
go
on whirling in your head. I promise you about England - that was
one of the main worries. I think%'
  'I would be grateful.'
  'I don't know what we can do about Jonathan Pool. Talk about
it in the morning, if you like: '
  'It's Inauguration Day.'
  ', So it is.'
  Clemency slid down into her bed. She was not a child that one
tucked up for the night: at least not a child that Alice could.
Hugo.
yes. Hugo always did that.
  She went over to the door. `You put out your lamp: It's
terribly
late.'
  'Yes. I'll do it. I heard Dubrovnik leave. The soup wasn't
much,
was it: Not after all the fuss he made.'
  'Dubrovnik always leaves, darling. Iþe doesn't live here.'
  'I know. I heard his car. Vroom. vroom. vroom.'
  An oblique reminder that I have to stay away from anyone who
might stand in Hugo's golden light: Possibly a form of thank you.
for the mother-and-daughter chat: One could never be absolutely
certain.
  She said: 'I'm off I'll just look in on Hope, see that she
hasn't been
having any whirling thoughts.'
  'Goodnight.' said Clemency. The room was suddenly dark. 'Hope
won't be having any whirling thoughts. She hasn't the
sensitivity.
Anyway. she looks like a pig when she's asleep. Nose in the
air.
mouth open. I expect she's got adenoids.'
  She was lying with one arm thrown wide across the
counterpane.
the other close to her side. thumb in mouth. A little like a pig.
thought Alice. Nose in the air, a sweet pig. God, I'm lucky: at
least
I have these two. Growing people. Part of what was once, and what
was sweet, and funny: perhaps not always good. But life doesn't
come in comfortable segments like a piece of fruit cake. with the
cherries scattered all the way through. Sometimes there aren't
any
cherries in the bit you get at all. Make do. then. with the
currants.
She leant down and took Hope's wide-flung arm. the ladybird
bracelet round her wrist. put it under the sheets. Hope groaned,
stirred. mumbled. Was asleep again.
  Her own room. in comparison with the spartan order of
Clemency's. was a wreck. Cupboard doors half-open. powder spilt
on
the too small dressing-table, bed unmade. roughly drawn up, a
pair
of shoes tumbled at the side.
  At her desk. jammed into the shallow bay window which looked
out onto the dark, forlorn backyard. papers and letters held down
by assorted paper-weights, her drawing board angled beside a
glass
jar of drooping marguerites in water that was low. and scummy.
  Standards falling. she thought. I never really lived in a mess
like
this before. It was not. shall we say, my habit. I liked it all
nice. all
tidy. All proper. This is my office. my bedroom. the place where
I
weep. the only place: my cell.
  Jupiter can have a clear-up. If Jupiter comes. Probably won't.
Inauguration Day. so she'll be glued to her television set all
morning.
  She ran water in the wash-basin. cleaned her teeth carelessly.
The toothpaste tube squashed in the middle. cap missing. Some-
thing which Hugo would have killed me for.
  No Hugo. So who cares now%
  I think I managed the mother daughter thing all right? Oh God!
Poor Clemency. It's all just beginning for her. and I hadn't an
idea
that she loathed it here: that wild Gray's Elegy bit. Lying in
her
coffin. smooth in white. beneath towering elms and cawing rooks
at Farthing Hall. What brought that to a head? English voices
perhaps. Nettles. Lea. Jon.
  Poor Jon. The next time she'll have him under a microscope.
Every line and wrinkle will be searched for, and found. Not that
he
has many, in truth. He's worn well.
  She took a towel and rubbed her face with a wet corner. looked
at the smear of stale make-up which betrayed her slovenliness.
Decided to wash. Washed. rinsed. rubbed hard with the towel.
  She's right. of course. about his voice. It's good. comforting.
  caring. warm. I wish that I had been able to care for him. as
they
  say. more. God knows that he hoped so too, but I met him too
late.
  or rather he met me too late. I'd already been caught.
Spoken-for.
! thankfully. And he would never have been fun. Not as much fun
  as Hugo was. never have been as. . . she reached for a
hairbrush,
  started to brush her hair harshly, head forward and down. . .
  dangerous. Sexually he was all right, pleasant. Nothing
remarkable.
  all right. Why did he remember bloody Avignon tonight. I
suppose
  because it was the first time? She shook her head. hair flying
about
  her face, dragged the brush backwards through it. hard, her
neck
straining.
  I suppose that the trouble with me is that I find sex
distinctly
agreeable. I always did. Learned a lot too. So I am therefore an
easy
lay. with the right man. And bloody little future.
  Who will take on the Widow Arlington and two growing children.
female:
  Clemency. Sharp little bitch. `I heard his car. Vroom. vroom.
vroom.' She knows perfectly well what's going on, and she equally
knows that I have never defaulted under this hideous roof. And
never would.
  She threw the brush onto the dressing-table, unzipped her
jeans,
undressed.
  If I'd married Jon and not Hugo. Play games. What would I be
like now% Tweeds and amber% Hardly fair. Anyway not suitable for
the south of France. Probably a white shift. espadrilles. a straw
hat.
painting earnestly in a cool whitewashed room.
  She pulled back the untidy bedclothes. smoothed the bottom
sheet roughly. got in. I forgot the breakfast things. I could
have
cleared the table. put out the bowls. the cornflakes. the coffee
things.
She reached out and took up her travelling clock, set the alarm
for
six thirty a.m. I told Jon far too much: talked up a storm. That
warm.
caring voice. I suppose. It's good to have someone to listen. No
harm
done. except to bore him witless. Poor Jon. One of life's eternal
victims. Why did he think that I liked peppermint creams:
  Oh, Clemency! I hope you'll never know rejection. That
staggering moment of shock when you suddenly realize that you no
longer
appeal sexually to the man you adore. that you are suddenly 'a
wife'. To be served. Occasionally. casually. as in some
veterinary gesture. No tenderness. Like a cow. Loving someone is
no laughing
matter. my darling. It's a matter, too often. for tears.

chapter 3.
Jonathan

The Pigalle Suite. on the sixth floor, looked north across the
ugly
city towards the Santa Monica mountains: a ridge of scabby
pumice-
stone swelling up from a sea of two- and three-storey buildings
and
a mass of telegraph poles. It looks, he thought, from here
anyway.
like one of those shanty towns they built for a gold rush. Beyond
them. and only really visible on a smogless day. the high barrier
of
the San Gabriel mountains, a protecting arm holding back the ugly
flood on the plain. bounded on the west by the Pacific.
  Immediately below him on the wide street. a car salesroom
built.
for some unknown reason. with a Tudor facade. Leaded lights.
little
gables. beams and bricks. All the rest. stretching far behind.
a fiat
concrete block. Beside it the multi-floors of a Bank of America's
giant car park. the bank building itself a monolithic black glass
box.
up-ended. There was very little traffic. no one walking on the
streets.
  'Mugging.' the White Rat had said, driving him back from Brent-
wood up Wilshire Boulevard. `Shit scared of being mugged. We got
more violence in this town than Chicago, you believe that?'
  'If you tell me.'
  'I do.'
  `It seems pretty quiet tonight.'
  'It's early yet. Eleven thirty around. . . they come out
later.'
  `Who do: '
  'The niggers. Pardon me. Blacks.' He slowed down at a crossing:
the lights were red. 'There's two things is wrong with this
city.' The
amber fiashed. went to green. They moved forward. slowly so that
he could concentrate. 'You know what they are?'
  'No. Stranger here. I only got in a day ago. . .'
  'Stranger myself. From Oregon. Up north. It's Blacks and Jews.'
  'I had no idea.'
  'Yes sir. The main problems. Take them away and we wouldn't
have none. Take the Jews. they got everything. Every fancy store
on Rodeo Drive they got. You know that% Every movie got a Jew
behind it some wheres: every TV show got its Jews. This city is
all
about movies and TV and music. you won't dispute that: '
  'No I won't.'
  'And all of the Jews are right in there behind it all. Even my
own
fuckin' agent, he's a Jew. All the fancy itty-bitty palaces in
Bel Air.
all Jews! Some places are restricted. mind you. But not so many.
And
medicine! Sheet man, all medicine is fuckin' Jews. I mean, take
Frood, eh % '
  `And where. then, do the blacks come in. Doesn't seem much for
them left to take over?'
  'They's about. The blacks are about. Creeping around every-
wheres. Ever since Watts. You know about Watts in Europe%'
  'Yes. We read about it.'
  'Readin's different. They burned it down and then started goin'
wild. Crazy wild. And the Jews up here! Sheet man! They scrammed
outa here. They went off to New York or Palm Springs. . . they
was
so scared they just cleared. Scared they'd be lynched.'
  'I'm learning something every hour.'
  'Plenty to learn. yes sir. You know Bloomingdales% The big
store:
Right. Broad daylight, see% Two blacks hit a woman with a wrench.
she falls. they kick her. take her bag and run. Know what
happins:
Nothing happins. In broad daylight. the sidewalk covered in
people.
they just leave her. and she was screamin'. . .'
  'Why did they leave her?'
  'Didn't want to get involved is why. That's this city. You've
arrived in the Inferno. You better be warned.'
  'I'm grateful. Aren't you playing tonight, Wayne%'
  'When I get you off loaded. We're right near. I had a real nice
evening at my sister's, we had some chilli and watched a movie.
It
was real nice. Relaxed. I go to work anytime I like. Just join
the
combo. mosey in. start fooling about for a little, get the
feeling. start
to play. It's good. There's your hotel. . . we make a turn here.
. .'
  The suite itself was predictable expense-account luxury. A
long.
low settee against one wall. customary twin tables at either end
supporting twin lamps of no particular design, except that it was
bad.
  A circular coffee-table in the centre: a bowl of red apples.
a knife
and plate. 'With the Compliments of the Management.' Two bergere
armchairs in fake stressed fruitwood. a desk under the windows,
a
blotter, telephone, jar of disposable pens. Walls covered in taut
stretched fabric of no particular colour or pattern. Hot
bran-mash,
would you say% Hot bran-mash with little white daisies.
  Three pictures. hung too high: the Moulin Rouge, the Arc de
Triomphe. the eggshell domes of the Sacre Coeur. Lending a Gallic
atmosphere to the room: Amazing. 'These are genuine hand-
painted pictures. Copies may be purchased from the drugstore in
the
lobby. . .'
  Dominating everything, bran-mash and daisies. an immense
television set. In the bedroom. twin American colonial beds. Blue
hessian walls, another giant television.
  The telephone beside his bed blinked urgently. A cyclopian eye.
Scarlet. angry. He dialled '0'.
  `This is your Night Operator. May I help you%' A low, long-
defeated, woman's voice.
  'Room 701. Mr Pool, Jonathan Pool. The message light is
flashing. Is there a message for me?'
  'When the red message light is flashing. that is an indication
that
there is a message for you.'
  'Could I have it then%'
  'What room number is this%'
  'Room 701.'
  'Room 701. What name might that be?'
  'Er. . . the Pigalle Suite. . .'
  The woman cut in sharply. `Your name?'
  `Pool. Jonathan Pool.'
  'One moment please.' A pause. `You are Mr Jonathan Pool in
Room 701 % '
  'I am.'
  'Right. I have it. At ten forty-six you had a message from Mr
Andrew Shapiro. . '
  'Ah. Yes. Ummm. Just hold on a moment, will you. I think I have
that message.' He scrabbled through a small sheaf of yellow
message-sheets in his hand. 'Yes I have.'
  'You already have it% I only just came on duty. We have to
verify all messages. Our motto here is "Service and Our Clients'
Welfare".'
She rang off. The red eye went out.
  I'm in the Inferno all right. Christ. He looked at the messages
which he had spread across the made-down bed. All from Mr
Shapiro who. it would appear. had telephoned him every half hour
since six thirty. The final one read, 'Expect you breakfast
tomorrow
seven thirty a.m. Cordially.'
  It was already after midnight. He knew that he wouldn't be able
to sleep: jet lag had finally slammed him with a face like a
Francis
Bacon portrait. If I try to sleep I'll wake in an hour. starving.
  He got up and went to the bathroom. White tiles, stacks of
towels,
a paper strip across the lavatory seat. `This has been made
hygienic-
ally clean for you. . .'
  They must all be barking mad! I've got indigestion from that
bloody awful soup whatsisname made. No wonder he finished the
brandy. Two Alka-Seltzers in a glass of cloudy tap-water. He
watched them fizz, rise. fall. Stirred them irritably with the
handle
of his toothbrush, winced at the taste of recycled chlorinated
water.
  At the sitting room window, looking down across the night city:
the outline of buildings. a scattering of lights. He pressed his
fore-
head to the glass. Below. a car screamed past. lights flashing.
sirens
howling. He removed his jacket, slung it over a chair, lay fiat
on the
long settee. Beyond the net curtains. somewhere across the city,
a
pink sign winked Harry's snacks! On. Off. On. Off. He started to
doze. The air-conditioning throbbed. The way she shakes her head,
the hair falling about her shoulders, tossed behind her ears.
That's
the same. It was always that gesture which grabbed me. A form of
subliminal sexuality? I don't know. That hasn't changed; only my
attitude to it. And the eyes, those incredible eyes: now dull.
They
never smile while the whole faces smiles. Not dull: that's hardly
fair.
Dulled. Dulled with fading pain. as if hurt and secret distress
had
washed them clean of joy. I wonder why? Arthur Sean Sproule.
Christ! That was a strange moment. Hugo Arlington the so highly
cultured: the writer of the most elegant prose of this century.
Some
idiot critic said that. A number of them did. The Irish blood and
a
touch of the blarney: And Arthur Sean Sproule killed himself:
Crashed deliberately% Why: The golden poet, writer of fine prose.
fleeing something which he was unable to face%
  And Alice now: the sharp lines in the exquisite face, the
tension
in her throat and neck muscles. The coldness which has come with
the onset of her personal winter. The dismissal of Avignon. and
that
night, by the remembrance of the meal. That was deliberate, of
course. The determined refusal to accept guilt. Not a bad feat
of
memory. nonetheless. indicating that the dish was far more
memorable than the event which had preceded it: a perfect put-
down. Clever girl. I got it.
  This was all Hugo's training, of course. He pulled her into
shape,
moulded. formed her in his likeness. More like twins. really,
than
man and wife. She accepted and absorbed his coldness. his
arrogance. the points of view which were most particularly his
own. his
opinions: took them all in a strange chameleon-love. She
literally,
and obviously willingly. sublimated whatever her original mind
had been to the one which suited him: taking all her colours from
his. It was not altogether attractive to observe.
  The first time we met. after the marriage. she seemed to be a
radiantly ordinary. joyous creature. Gay, excited, ravishingly
beautiful. The heavy golden hair, the open generous smile. the
eyes
which literally sparkled with delight at the thought that she had
escaped from the mundanities of a Major-General's daughter who
had suffered, as her family due. all the restraints on overt
emotionalism and deeply restricted affections.
  With Hugo she knew that she could let all that rip: and she
did.
What was so strange is that beneath the correct behaviour of her
early life there must have always been a strong streak of
amorality.
Perhaps the word `streak' is not quite right? A seed. A seed
buried
far inside. lying dormant. which began to shoot and to grow in
the
warmth of Hugo's demands: and knowledge. And the flower of
carnality flourished. Making her more glorious. more exciting
and,
because she was his wife. more desirable as she was, apparently,
unattainable. Anyway at first.
  Hugo's bride. Hugo's wife. Perfect wife for an ambitious man,
she
helped him on his steady climb towards the Gods on whose right
and left hands he was determined to sit. And in time it really
was
remarkable how one watched the transformation begin to take
shape. how she managed, with that glowing and radiant smile, to
step carefully, and ruthlessly. with elegant heel. on the fingers
or even. in time, the faces of any of those who might pose any
form
of threat to her God. Unattractive. of course: but amusing to
watch
just as long as you yourself were fingerless and faceless. That
was
an asset.
  Very possibly why I survived out of the hundreds who did not.
I sat and watched with wonder from a distance: a faceless
admirer.
Safe. apparently posing no threat. And was despised by Hugo for
those qualities. I know that. It amused me. The despising: his
dislike
was manifest. but overlaid with a casual acceptance that his wife
liked me. I don't know why really. He never, for one moment,
thought that I might like his wife. I never let it show.
  On purpose.
  The Safe Neuter, he once remarked. He never knew how deeply
I disliked him. Never a single hint of that. Hated the
pretentious
prick from the first instant I met him, ages before. being
lionized by
his aficionados. . . he was instantly aware of my lack of threat
to
him: I was the plebeian writer with no intellectual gifts, no
pretentions to them either. smug apparently, comfortable. not
worth
the trouble of consideration. The Eunuch Scribbler was another
of
his name-tags neatly wired to my stem. I was perfectly safe to
be
left in the company of his wife. A kind nanny. He was certain
that
he had nothing to fear in any direction from me. whatsoever.
Silly
bastard.
  I detested most of what he wrote. Admired grudgingly, because
I really grew to loathe him. some. Never the bloody Trelinka
Trilogy:
that pretentious bit of sanctimonious twaddle which was simply
an
excuse to use every sexual expression known to man, every ugly
word and deed, and collect them under the guise of Literature.
  God!
  Someone called it `a Byronic exercise in its majesty'. Who the
hell
was that% Can't remember; but there were a lot who thought so.
I
mean, honestly, the rubbish they wrote. and write still. Byronic
balls. Byronic in its turgid length. I give you that. and bulk.
A kind
of hard porn Don Juan if you can put that together. I know what
I
mean. Absolute obscenity in the most elegant. graceful poetry.
Like
antichrist sexual grafifiti sprayed about Canterbury Cathedral.
Something like that.
  But from that cheating piece of bulk-nonsense the myth of Hugo
Arlington really began. The Greatest Lyric Poet. No matter what
he
wrote in future. That was the solid foundation stone. And it
supported a rotten man: i'm suspected. Woodworm in a slowly
crumbling piece of self construction. Arthur Sean Sproule! Stand
up and
be counted! There is no one else to do it; because Hugo Arlington
didn't really exist.
  He half rolled. half crawled, off the long. low settee;
wandered in
a wavering line to the netted windows. hands in rumpled hair.
Blurring pinkly through the folds of draped nylon, Harry's EArs!
On. Off. On. Off. In England it's breakfast time. About. Bacon
curling
in the pan: eggs with trembling yolks in fans of white. frilling
at the
edges. Fried bread sputtering. Fried bread! With mushrooms and
bacon! God, I'd settle for just the eggs even so. Anything.
anything.
The time is all wrong, out of kilter. My gut knows the time
better
than my watch.
  My watch lies.
  'I'm simply starving,' she had said as they sat down. 'I warn
you.
No lunch. No time. Coffee for breakfast. Tell me. I must know,
are
you immensely rich tonight?'
  'Tonight yes. Immensely. Anything you want.'
  'You must be. Dining here.' She took an offered menu. 'It could
be a whole horse. It's all so tempting. I don't think that they
should
put the price beside the course, do you: I mean for lady guests
anyway. Terribly intimidating. Is that what I am? Your lady
guest%'
  'That's what you are. Mine. For the evening. That's why I'm
immensely rich, you see.'
  'Oh! Stuff. . . you really are idiotic.' She looked carefully
down the
menu. then back to him. tapping the large white card lightly
against
her chin. 'Really immensely rich. you said?'
  'Really.'
  'Then longe de veau matignon en cr6uxe with artichoke hearts.
I
mean why not? When the cat's away the mice will play. Mouse,
rather. Me. A starving mouse.'
  The look of her, the scent of her. the laughter in her eyes,
lightly
mocking.
  'Where is your cat. I ask myself.'
  'You ask yourself, or you ask me?' Head tilted. lips in a
Madonna
smile. eyes narrowed now.
  `You. But you needn't tell.'
  `He's in Provence. Having a look at Mary Magdalen's pad. Did
you
know that she lived for thirty-three years in a cave in the South
of
France? Madly chic.'
  'I didn't.'
  'Somewhere called St Baume, near Aix. Well. not far. Angels led
her to the cave and she sat there all that time, for years and
years.
A desperately boring thing to do. I'd say.'
  'What did she do there?'
  'Shouldn't we order? Please: I'm really famished. Altogether
famished. Do catch a waiter's eye.'
  He did, and ordered.
  'You learn the oddest things, I suppose, from your Lyric Cat?
But
tell. Come on. What did she do in her cave?'
  'Prayed and meditated. Poor bitch.'
  `All the time?'
  'That's what it says in the books. It does seem a bit
excessive, but
after all she had quite a deal to meditate on, hadn't she? All
that
grisly past of hers, then joining the Leader and casting aside
her
gaudy raiments, or whatever. Her wickedness, sins I suppose%
Would you call them sins% Then the Crucifixion and all. and then,
my dear. the Resurrection! I mean that must have been quite a
moment. mustn't it? Enough to make you think a bit, wouldn't you
say: I suppose. you know. she was the first groupie. . .'
  He was laughing. his hands clapped over his ears. `You are
disgraceful! Alice, you say appalling things. It's blasphemy!'
  'I know. But look here. work it out in today's currency. What
else
was she% She trailed about all over the place with Him while He
was
doing his miracles and washing feet and so on. She had a brother
called Lazarus. don't forget. and he'd had a bit of a surprise,
let's
face it. and then when it was all over. and Pilate had done his
elegant bit of hand-washing. she went off and shacked up with the
Virgin. I mean, I ask you!'
  'You are an extraordinary creature. You are as wicked as hell.
. . '
  'I have never denied that. But. Jon. she did! I mean. you laugh
at me
but it's the truth. It's history. Gospel. you might say.' She
laughed
suddenly. a low, caught sound, reached across the table and took
his
hand in both of hers. 'How funny it is. How strange. I do laugh
with
you. I wonder why: You bring out all the worst in me I suppose.'
  'I wish that I could believe that. Wish that I could see it.
Where
is St Baume: Near Aix, you said: `
  `Snmewhere near. I'm to call Hugo there on Sunday. He'll be
through by then. He's presently following in the footsteps of the
lady
with a little notebook and a camera. Likes to do his Wander
Research by himself now. Absolute commitment, he says. Writes up
his notes by candlelight of an evening. Or something.'
  'Deadly serious.'
  'Deadly. About work.'
  'I'm going down on Thursday.,
  She looked up sharply. She had been spooning salt into little
hillocks across the tablecloth, brushed them aside with the fiat
of
her hand. took up a pinch and threw it over her shoulder. 'To
Provence: To your house: '
  'Driving down.'
  `Where is it, I forget. Near Aix?'
  `No. But I have to go through Aix. I could drop you off. . .'
  'Thursday% No. it's madness. . .'
  `Spur of the moment stuff. Better than a boring old telephone
call
isn't it: '
  'I do rather love your car. It's terribly tempting. . .'
  'We wouldn't need to hurry. Stop off somewhere pleasant, calm.
Good food, good wine.'
  She was smiling her agreement. 'Where% You know somewhere
simply splendid: '
  'Well. Look here. What would you say to the Ritz: Paris. Thurs-
day evening: `
  , She had bent her head over another little hillock. brushed
it flat.
looked up at him. 'Say: I'd say, well. "Good evening, Ritz." And
. . . Friday: ' She carefully spooned out more salt, swept it
away.
took a pinch. threw it over her shoulder. brushed the cloth
clean.
folded her hands. one on top of the other. wedding-ring glinting.
  He balanced a fork carefully across his index finger. watched
it swing gently.
  'Avignon'   HARRY'S tATS! On. Off. On. Off. He turned away from
the draped
windows abruptly. All gone. All gone. The past. And not a thread
of it remains. Now. A ghost laid. To hell with the yearning,
passion-
less years. The Best Friend. the Standby. the Extra Pair of
Trousers
when she needed her table completed. the patronage from Hugo; all
gone. As if it had never existed.
  Those slender fingers fixing an idiot yellow ribbon. That
simple
gesture, those dark eyes. doused the guttering candle of my
waiting
years.
  `You have won something!' she said. It was not a question: a
statement.
  I'm pretty certain about that. And I have fallen deeply,
irrevocably. in love. How curious!
  He dialled Room Service and ordered a full breakfast.

chapter 4.
Nettles and Lea

`Everyone seems to light fires in this extraordinary place. I
can't
imagine why,' said Nettles. switching on lamps in the
high-ceilinged
white room.
  'Because, my darling, this is a desert coast. Clammy. Sea fogs.
Desert nights. It's not the tropical haven they all pretend it
to be.
Anyway not in January.`
  `It's certainly not that, ' he said. 'And you have lit a very
attractive
fire. Better than poor Alice's effort. That black cavern full of
scorched logs. Too unattractive.'
  lea knelt back. hands on her thighs. "You must admit I make a
good fire: Do say so: Lovely birch logs and an extremely helpful
gas
burner. The whole thing is a fake of course, like the city.'
  'A very pretty fire,' said Nettles, settling into the fat
plumed
cushions on the metal campaign bed which served as a settee in
this
pleasing house. 'I"m seeing. and feeling. the point of the
business
now. Birch logs. Imported, I imagine% They so remind me of poor
Irina, all that Russian stuff. Very Cherry Orchard and all the
rest of it.'
  Lea got up, brushed her skirt. put the matches on a table. 'A
whisky nightcap% Or brandy%'
  'Nightcap% God. Are you about to stay up all night? It's after
twelve already.'
  'Not all. No. Just a part of it. You'd better have a brandy
after that
odd soup. and all the brandy you drank after dinner.'
  'Self-defence. That strange fellow was pouring it out like
milk.
Yes. a brandy.'
  He heard her clinking about among bottles and glasses. singing
softly to herself. A sound which he was instantly aware that he
would miss dreadfully, should he not be able to hear it. The
soft,
involved. preoccupied singing of Lea. But she was here. Close.
With
him.
  He lay back comfortably in the flickering light. An odd place.
Odd
people in Los Angeles. Wonderfully kind. Needing kindness too.
The
rag-tag-and-bobtail, whatever did that really mean? of the human
race packed together in an area of two hundred square miles
facing
the grey Pacific. why did I always think it would be blue% With
their
backs to a desert.
  The only things that were indigenous to the place were the
rattlesnakes and the coyotes. Everything else was imported. From
the gin to the palm trees. Even the smog. What can it have been
like when the first Spanish invaders saw it and called it the
city of
the angels? God knew.
  He had rented the house. at the start of his term of office at
the
Beekmann University. lecturing on Early Roman culture and
literature (on the strength of two academically important books:
one on
Pliny the Elder. the other on Catullus). from a charming and
highly
civilized woman writer who had, with great acumen. he thought.
decided to let her house and move East to Connecticut for the
winter. 'I just can not deal with Santa Claus and Florida palms.'
she
had said, and charged him a modest rent.
  Perhaps. he thought. looking about from his plumed depth, it
was
a trifle feminine: Rather a lot of frills to the pillows.
patchwork
quilts, stump-work pictures on the walls. glazed-eyed French
dolls
lying about here and there. and a sight too much gingham at the
windows. Nevertheless it was welcoming. and he was comfortable.
and it suited him perfectly, and with the added charm of the
contained court yard outside. which he shared with five or six
other
householders whom he hardly ever saw, he considered himself
more than fortunate.
  He might, although he was eternally grateful that he was not.
have been living in a college. instead of behind a high brick
wall on
Twentieth Street. Santa Monica, California. A don.
  All it lacked. really. were the reminding bells from countless
steeples at dawn and at sunset, and at moments throughout the
day. On the other hand. at the age which he had managed to reach
in comparative comfort, he was perfectly happy not to be reminded
that time. his time, was passing. Uncomfortably quickly.
  Lea came back. gave him his drink, took her own and sat on a
cushion beside the elegant small mantelpiece of French marble.
  `I was just thinking how ineliably pleasant it is here.' he
said.
`Especially in your company.'
  She bowed her head with grace. "Thank you.'
  'I was also thinking that I felt a little like a don. Do I look
like one:
Oh dear God! These grey hairs add such distinction to one. But
there
is an atmosphere here of, I don't know. . . in this little
courtyard,
college bells, matins. evensong. chalk and ink, mortar boards.
Does
that sound complete rubbish: Or merely like shorthand?'
  'Shorthand. Your sort. But I understand that. I should do after
twenty-odd years. I see what you mean. It's Rupert Brookish. .
.
Grantchester and so on. . .'
  'Dreadfully overrated, Grantchester.'
  'You mean the poem or the place: '
  'well both. sadly. It is always very regrettable to lose one`s
illusions, even at my age.'
  'I lost mine. about all that I mean. the day I went there.
Filled with
flowery thoughts and longing to tread hallowed earth. All I can
remember now is that there was no sign of tea. let alone honey,
a
sullen woman pushing a pram in the rain and a telephone box. My
Grantchester. Dreadfully. sadly. crushing.'
  'Oh, crushing indeed.'
  'But I know what you mean about this place. Secret, shut away.
Little brick paths, snapdragons and roses. Do you feel donnish
or
really monkish%'
  'Neither. Thank God. I feel me. Nettlish.'
  'I'm very glad indeed to hear it. Beyond the wall is so
incredibly
strange. I haven't come to terms with this place, even after a
month.
All those flabby young men jogging along Santa Monica Boulevard.
Do you remember that first time I saw them: With Alsatian dogs
on leashes! I was staggered.' '
  `To defend themselves from muggers.'
  'I thought they were being kind. of course. Tender-hearted
nitwit.
Those silly little shorts, the pot bellies, sweaty tee-shirts.
puffing
along with a huge dog on a leash! The whole place is. shall we
say, bewildering % '
  'I beg you to forgive me. Mr Nettles. if I say that the whole
situation is. well. shall we say, bewildering%' Miss Brace had
said.
twenty years ago.
  A tall. comfortable. big-boned woman; good ankles. good shoes,
a well-cut flannel suit, small amethyst elips on the left lapel.
pleasant
smile. A good person. Behind her at the desk in her study, a
flock
of distant schoolgirls playing lacrosse. a wind whipping the last
yellowing leaves from a trail of wisteria swinging and twisting
against. the leaded lights of the study window.
  'Madness. I would venture. Miss Brace. But what does one do
otherwise: '
  `She's only ten. you know.'
  'I am well aware of her age, I assure you.'
  Miss Brace poked a sharpened pencil into her blotter. 'I mean.
Mr
Nettles. do you know anything at all about ten-year-old girls?'
  'Nothing.' he said. 'But I will learn.'
  She looked at him with a vague suggestion of helplessness. Miss
Brace was not a helpless woman. but here. for once. she felt she
was
fast approaching that state. 'Of course,' she said, hurrying a
little
in her speech. `I do see that it is a cataclysmic experience for
her,
poor child. I mean to lose both parents in one go!'
  She spoke, Nettles thought, as if she were talking about a
coconut
shy at a fair. In one go.
  Rooke swerving, as he would of course. to avoid a dog on a wet
road, and he and Emmie crushed to pulp. and burned, under a too
fast petrol tanker.
  Cataclysmic all right.
  In one go.
  'Well.' he said, crossing his legs and leaning back in the hard
chair opposite her. 'I made a very strict promise, as her
godfather.
to follow all the rules at the time of her christening. It was
not my
first attempt. Or theirs. There was an earlier child who died
when
he was four months. I believe they call that form of death a cot
death. am I right? Anyway it doesn't matter now. But I am not a
religious man, never have been. and I never pay much attention
to
all that mumbo-jumbo vicars use as their stock-in-trade.'
  'Really%' said Miss Brace.
  'Yes. Really. But I listened to the man and I promised to do
all
that I could, should the time. or need. arise. to care for her.
bring
her up in the Faith. and all that sort of thing. I made a
personal vow.
Miss Brace. to myself that I'd stick to the rules and do
everything
to protect, love and guide Lea Emily Rooke. That's what I am here
to do today.'
  'I think it is splendid of you.' said Miss Brace and meant it.
'But
you know, a child, at this tender age especially. needs a
mother's
love.'
  'Well. she hasn't got one. has she? And I'm not about to alter
my
sexual status to accommodate that need. She'll have to put up
with
me as I am.'
  Miss Brace smiled politely. `Normally, you know, a married
couple is preferred to a single parent. I mean you must see that:
'
  'I mustn't see it at all. She is mine. Left to me in both
wills. Now
look here. Miss Brace. there is nothing that you and I can do
about
it. I killed the child. I am expressly charged with taking her
and
bringing her up as my own. I loved both her parents keenly. I
miss
them quite appallingly. I shall do everything that I conceivably
can
to help repair this most grievous loss which she has had to
suffer.
We know each other, and we like each other. . .'
  'A difference, I think, Mr Nettles, surely between liking and
loving: '
  'Of course there is! Do you think that I am unaware of that
fact:
The loving comes a little later, that's all.'
  'And there are no other relations? No, well, aunts. . . uncles%
Married couples with families%'
  'There are none. Two doodly uncles of Rooke's somewhere in
Suffolk. and an aunt who is at present climbing in the Upper
Himalayas. She has a Swedish lady friend. They live together. in
,extreme discomfort. in Simla.'
  `I see.' said Miss Brace, and snapped her pencil in two.
  'Mr and Mrs Rooke were both orphans. There is no family. as
such. on either side. Mrs Rooke's were massacred. as far as I
know.
to a man, by the Japanese in 1943.'
  Miss Brace. who had by now more or less collected her wits.
collected her broken bits of pencil, and put them in the
wastepaper
basket. threaded her fingers. laid them calmly on the top of her
desk.
'Now look here,' she said briskly. `We really aren't here to
discuss
all this. Lawyers and judges and so on have done all that. as you
are. I am sure. only too well aware. There is no question. Mr
Nettles.
that Lea Rooke is your responsibility. For as long as you, and
she,
may live. I do. most sincerely. wish you luck. It is a tremendous
responsibility. and naturally I will do anything that I possibly
can
to help. She is. I assume, staying on here at Branstoke Park?'
  'So long as she is happy here.'
  'That she is, and most popular.'
  `And I can afford the fees.'
  Miss Brace allowed herself to look about her desk, rearrange
a
pottery jar of asters with some attention. 'I think that would
be very
wise.' she said after a moment. `She is an industrious child.
Very.
shall I say, precocious. in its pleasantest sense. Precocious.
Yes.'
And then she decided to look him straight in the eye. 'Young
girls
of her kind mature rather more quickly than our children.'
  `I don't follow you?'
  `She is. I think. of mixed blood?'
  'Her mother was Eurasian. Dutch and Indonesian.'
  'Exactly. That is what I mean. I imagine that, like all men.
you
are really not fully acquainted with the. . . er. . . complex
development of the female body% Am I right% I speak of nature's
little tricks.
you understand%'
  'If we are speaking of menstruation. then I can't say that I
have
been privy to the phenomenon every day of my life: no. But I do
know that it happens, and why. I had two sisters. Miss Brace. one
of whom was so distressed by the awareness of her breasts that
she
bound them tightly down with a damp towel and hid in a wardrobe.
defying anyone to come to her aid. I know what happens. I assure
you. I am very well aware of life in general, I am also an
historian.
Ancient Rome, Miss Brace. was not sparing in its detail, nor was
it
Branstoke Park. '
  `I beg your pardon. I simply wanted you to be aware that Lea
is,
well. precocious. But we'll jump that hurdle when we get to it.'
  `We have quite a number of those. I fear.'
  'Yes. indeed,' she said lightly. 'But I am certain that if we
all pull
together we'll get safely under sail.'
  Goodness! thought Nettles. how she mixes her metaphors. I
suppose one really can't blame her. It must be the first time
she's
ever had to deal with a situation exactly like this. Most
irregular.
poor woman. He started to rise from his chair. `I really think
that
I must be on my way. I want to catch the four twenty-five if I
possibly can.'
  'No tea% Ginger snaps. . '
  'No. thank you so much. No tea. But I'd like to have a quick
word
with Lea again, if I might. I have something to tell her.'
  'She's next door, with Miss Anstruther. I'll get her. and leave
you
in peace. Just give me a tap when you are leaving, and. . .' she
suddenly put her hand on his sleeve. 'I really do mean good luck.
It's a splendid thing that you are doing, and though it won't be
easy,
I don't think you'll regret it, in the end.'
  'I'm certain I won't,' said Nettles. and watched her cross the
pleasant panelled room, with well-concealed doubt.
  Lea was tall for ten. She stood before him, hands clasped. long
dark hair gleaming brilliantly in the autumn light, her eyes.
Emmie's eyes, clear, perfectly set in a small oval face.
  'hey dear. You know the wallpaper you said you wanted? Cow
parsley, that stuff: '
  'Queen Anne's lace.'
  'Queen Anne's lace. I can't tell a dandelion from a daisy.
well, it's
up! Your room is a bower of summer flowers. green and white.'
  'And the curtains: '
  'And the curtains. And all the pieces you wanted from home are
there too. We've arranged them. Mrs Curtis and I. but of course
you
must change things about when you arrive.'
  'Half term is quite near.'
  'That's when we'll do it. But I just wanted to tell you that.
in spite
of the quite amazing sloth of the English working man, the paper.
and the curtains. are done.'
  'Thank you. Super. Have you been talking to Miss Brace?'
  `A long talk. She's worried. of course. that we'll have
difficulties
. . it's a very unusual thing for her to understand. You aren't
an
ordinary orphan, you see. Most orphans have some kind of
relations, family. You only have me.'
  'Do you think we'll have difficulties?'
  'Well, impossible to say. We might, mightn't we? I mean.
suppose
you clobbered Mrs Curtis with a rolling pin? Or set the house
afire: '
  'Like Matilda: '
  `Like Matilda! Matilda told such dreadful lies, it made one
start
and stretch one's eyes. . .'
  Lea laughed suddenly: '.And every time she shouted "Fire!" they
only answered "Little liar!" '
  'Absolutely correct,' said Nettles. 'And therefore when her
aunt
returned. Matilda and the house were burned.' He touched her
hand.
  'Well, you wouldn't do that, would you, after such a dire
warning: And if we do have what you call difficulties. we'll talk
them
over. sort them out. That's the best way. isn't it? You must
promise
me that.'
  She nodded, turned, looked out the window at the lacrosse game.
`Do you go away a lot? Travel to places?'
  'I% Go away% Well not a lot. Sometimes of course I have to.
Research. you know. . .'
  'I mean. actually what I mean. is that when you do. and I'm not
here at school, would I be left alone% Except for Mrs Curtis. of
course.
By myself. in the fiat%'
  First dangerous corner. thought Nettles, and to his amazed
delight he heard himself reply with a firmness which astonished
him. 'If I go away. and it's out of term time, you'll come too.
understand: You won't be left alone ever, unless you want to be.'
  She turned quickly from the window. 'I don't.'
  'It's just that some people do. They like to be alone, have
their
moment of privacy. you know: '
  'Yes. But I don't want that. I wouldn't be a nuisance. I
promise
you. I'd be very quiet.'
  'Darling girl. I have lived a very lonely, quite empty life.
I am very,
very grateful that you have accepted sharing it with me.'
  'Well I didn't really accept. did I? I was left to you. wasn't
I%'
  'But you have accepted. I hope% I mean that would be awful for
me if not?'
  'Oh no! I accepted. I just meant that perhaps I am a trouble
to
you% If you want me. if you really mean it'll be all right for
you,
that's what I want too.'
  'I want you tremendously. How will that do?'
  'Very well. I can kiss you. can't I?'
  'I should hope you will,' he said, and suddenly found that he
was
holding her body between his arms. her head buried tightly
against
his jacket, and that she was weeping hopelessly.
  He held her to him tightly. rocking her gently. waiting for the
tears and the pain. which she had held contained for so long, to
flood away. He realized suddenly that for the very first time in
his
life he was actually holding someone in his arms who desperately
needed him: might even want him to need her in return. He felt
richness flood him, and bent his head so that his lips kissed the
soft,
tumbled black hair. He was suffused with joy. This small
creature,
the union of the two people he had most loved in the world. and
who had loved him in return, was his. He had a long way to go.
a whole life to re-plan. enormous problems. possibly. in the
future,
but nothing could alter the fact that for the very first time,
after
years and years of searching. he had found love and was loved
with
equal intensity. And that the love would endure. He'd see to
that.
no matter what the cost. Emotionally.
  He squatted down, pulling her between his knees. holding her
arms to her sides. `Don't bend your head. you silly child. Don't
try
to hide the tears. They have to come. have to.'
  She mumbled something. tried to raise a hand to brush her face:
he held firm.
  `Now look at me. be brave! Come on. . . goodness! So much
dribble and nose-run! You are quite disgusting!' He took the
hand-
kerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the ruined face before
him. 'There. That's better. Frightfully good thing to be able to
cry
like that. I never could, just sulked. Or anyway people thought
I was
sulking. I think you'd better blow your nose. it's still running
like a mountain stream.'
  She tried to laugh, hiccupped, wiped her eyes.
  'Blow your nose. woman!'
  She did.
  'And again. You can keep the handkerchief. I really don't think
  it's up to my pristine style now, do you? Cost the earth. Pure
silk.
  Never mind. stick it in your bloomers.'
  She shook her long hair back. her eyes red with tears, her lips
  attempting to smile. and then she suddenly threw her arms round
  his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. She murmured some-
thing, smothering it in the fabric of his jacket.
  `You'll really have to do better than that. my dear. Can't hear
a
word you say. Mumble, mumble, mumble. Now come on. Out with
it.'
  She raised her head, but still held him: looking away. 'What
shall
I call you: '
  `That's a frightfully good point. We rather forgot about that
the
last time I came down, didn't we: Well, what do you want to call
me?'
  'I don't know.'
  'I see. Uncle is out for a start. if you had that in mind. I
simply
refuse to pre-age myself. And I so dislike my own name, Geoffrey,
don't you% I don't feel a bit like a Geoffrey. Do you think so?'
  He felt her nodding against his cheek. 'That's no answer. Do
you.
or don't you. You are being very unhelpful.'
  'I don't.'
  'Thank God for that. Would Nettles do? just plain Nettles?
Simple,
straightforward. and I'm used to it.'
  'Would it be rude: '
  'Rude! Not in the very least, I'd be far happier if you did.
You
know some people. some exceptionally uncharitable people. Lea,
say
that I closely resemble the weed. Tall and stringy, with lots of
little
stings everywhere. Dreadfully unfair I think, but I am amazingly
accustomed to it. Would Nettles do?'
  She nodded again. hiccupped. 'Yes. If you don't mind. It's what
they called you. isn't it: '
  He held her very close. 'They did indeed! Absolutely right.'
  She pulled away from him gently, releasing her grip round his
neck. stood free of his arms. 'Then I will.'
  'Excellent.' he said. 'I'm glad that we've finally got that on
board.'
  'Nettles,' she said cautiously, as if trying it for size.
'Nettles.'
  'No.' he said. 'You were right. Obese young men everywhere
jogging with Alsatian dogs. police sirens all night, rape and
pillage
all over the place. women shopping in curlers, quite unashamedly.
even in the smartest places. Bewildering. I don't think that I'll
ever
get used to it, although people say one does. In time.
Incredibly!
After six months here trying to pump the rudiments of Roman
culture and literature into classes which closely resemble a
gathering of milk-fed hogs. I can't find it in my heart to agree.
What a
future! Half of them stuffed to the gills with cocaine. the other
with
junk-food and ice cream. I really know that my time is up. It was
like digging the Panama Canal with a coffee spoon.'
  Lea laughed, swivelled round on her cushion to face him. cross-
legged. her arms in her lap. hands holding her glass. 'I think
I'll
be glad too. But it's been tremendous. And thank you. Thank you
for a holiday beyond dreams.'
  'Couldn't bear being all on my own for loathsome Christmas.
Thank you.'
  `No. but listen. Where on earth can you see an aquarium as vast
as Marineland or a cemetery like Forest Lawn with a scaled-down.
fig-leaved. Michaelangelo David. piped Debussy, and "Where Love
Lies in Beauty" as its motto! Where else!'
  'Nowhere. thank the lord.' said Nettles.
  'I think it's all rather marvellous in a way. A huge Disneyland
with real people.'
  `Ah! I wouldn't be too sure about that. Unreal people. Not
real. It's all quite desperate. People searching for identity.
for
roots. but at the same time destroying their individual pasts
irrevocably.'
  'They didn't seem like that tonight. At Alice's supper.'
  'Well. we were all displaced persons there, weren't we.
Russian.
English, her Yugoslav lover. I think only that odd creature,
Sybil
Witt. was American, and if you scratched her I'm sure you'd find
a Latvian. Estonian or Bulgarian underneath the fixed face, the
fixed nose, the Anglo-Saxon name. the straightened hair and the
cosmeticized teeth. Don't you love the word: Extraordinary.
Imagine poor Fowler here!'
  'You are too cruel by far. I quite liked him.'
  'You bewilder me. Whom did you like: The Yugoslav chap%
Fowler: '
  'Pool. Jonathan Pool. I was sitting beside him.'
  'Ah yes. Good writer. I'm told. Very popular.'
  ,He didn't bring his wife, I gather.'
  'I didn't know that he had one to bring.'
  'Oh.'
  `Are you relieved%'
  She looked up at him in surprise. `Relieved% Why% Now why
should I be relieved: '
  Nettles leant forward, elbows on knees. `You're giving a
perfectly
appalling performance. you know.'
  She turned away, putting another log on the dying fire. 'You
really are rotten. I was only asking. Nothing important.'
  'I know you, my child, far too well.'
  'Well. Well. he was extremely pleasant. A very attractive
voice,
didn't you think: '
  'I did. Do. I'd say he was quite good-looking too, wouldn't
you.
For someone in his early forties.'
  'Forties%'
  'Well. . . somewhere about there. He won't see thirty-five
again.
that I know.'
  'Forty. It's quite an age. isn't it?'
  'Is it: Are you doing rapid calculations?'
  'About what: '
  'Age. You are thirty and he's about ten or eleven, maybe twelve
years older. If you are anxiously considering if he would be
suitable
or not. I'd say that he was. . . and that once he gets over his
jet lag.
or whatever it is, he might prove to be intelligent. too. Now
what
more can I say: '
  'Nothing,' she said. 'We must go to bed. I was curious, that's
all.
Can't a woman be curious: '
  'Not without motive.'
  ,God. you are a bastard to me.'
  'Well. go carefully. I have to confess that most of your
gentlemen
friends have been pretty much of a dead loss, haven't they%'
  'Dreadful. I'm a bad picker. Always have been.'
  'Your last wild madcap fling with. what's his name: Donald
Upcroft-Williams. was beyond any comprehension.'
  'He was very rich, very attentive. and kind.'
  'A third-generation grocer with a Wilson knighthood. Madness.'
  'Snob. Ghastly snob. you are.'
  'If you mean. by being a snob, that I only like the very best.
. .
of everything. . . then I cannot contradict you.'
  'A house in Wiltshire, flat in Eaton Square. glorious villa in
Marbella. . .'
  `With. one imagines, a cocktail bar in every lounge. and a
Jacuzzi
in all the playrooms. God almighty!'
  'I'm not going into all that now. It's done anyway.'
  'Well. frankly, I think that Pool isn't half bad. You looked
very
pleasant together. Well matched.'
  'Nettles, we are not a pair of book-ends. And I wasn't even
thinking on those lines. But I did like him. Anyway. he's staying
here. and we are off to Europe. So that's that.'
  'He said only a week or so. Got a book someone wants to buy.
Or has bought.'
  'Oh.'
  'Yes. Oh. That's stopped you in your tracks.'
  'I just said Oh.'
  'Ifl were you I'd arrange a little meeting. perhaps, before you
go.
And as soon as he comes out of his Atlantic trance. Somewhere
easy, not dinner. . . that leads on to struggles, as you know.
A drink:
Tea: Try lunch. . . you can always get away after a lunch, hair-
dressers. dressmakers. dentists. . .'
  'Arranging my life again? I've already made a little
arrangement.
We're lunching at Ma Campagna tomorrow. So.'
  'Splendid locale. You won't hear a single word you address to
each other. It's like a cage of macaws. Claws, beaks. feathers.
The
claws are well in evidence.' Nettles got up stiffly. put his
glass on
the table before him. 'I'm off to bed. I do find dispensing
wisdom
exhausting. And all that wretched Yugoslav's brandy. . .'
  'It was Pool's actually.'
  'Far too much, and I want to watch the Inauguration tomorrow
. . shall I leave you here%'
  'For a moment,' she said. 'Until this log goes. Time for
reflection.'
  'Reflect well. Not unhappily.'
  'I won't.'
  'I gathered, from Alice herself. that Jonathan Pool was married
some years ago to a quite tiresome girl called Deborah who now
breeds ponies on Exmoor, or somewhere like that. that they were
divorced. and that he has been deeply in love with Alice
Arlington
for a thousand years. Hugo put up with him because he was safe
and often useful. That, just to round off the evening.'
  She turned and looked down the room towards him, one hand
running fingers through long hair. 'Thank you. I'm obleeged, sir.
But I have a feeling that perhaps he is no longer in love with
the
Widow Arlington.'
  'Oh: '
  'He suggested that a ghost had been laid, this evening.'
  'A disagreeable turn of phrase. Did he mean poor Hugo? Poor
dead Hugo: '
  'No. I have a feeling that he meant Alice. Poor live Alice.'
  'Extraordinary thing to say. Can't work that out at all, can
you?'
  'I can have a damned good try.' she said. `Can't I?'

chapter 5.
Irina Miratova

Irina Miratova closed her front door with extreme caution. She
had
done so for many years. ever since someone had suggested that a
good slam would bring the whole house down around her ears and
spill both herself and its contents into Santa Monica Bay below.
  When she had first arrived in California the house. a strange
wooden building with gables. a fretwork verandah and a high brick
chimney stack, had stood comfortably on the cliffs with a modest
yard before it and a run-down. but quite large one, at the back.
Years
of storms. torrential rains, and the enlarging of the coastal
road
below had eroded the cliff in time so that the house presently
stood
almost at the edge; much of the yard at the back had long since
slithered into the sea, and the winds rattled the unpainted
shutters
and clapboarding.
  She had been warned. begged. warned again. to leave. but had
  stayed on. No mayor. no local authority, no priest (they had
even
  tried religion at one time) could persuade her to budge. and
so she
  stayed there. aware. as they were, that one day she would be
  tumbled into the sea and lost for ever.
  At eighty-three. or about that (she really didn't know her
exact
  age and had lost all her original papers leaving Russia in 1922
in
a hurry), she didn't think that it mattered very much. She had
had
a long life, was in almost constant pain from arthritis. and felt
that
the sooner she went, really, the better. But from her own house,
on
her own terms. However, she was still cautious when it came to
shutting the wide front door, or opening windows. There was no
need to nudge fate. Death would come for her. in whatever manner,
when it chose.
  The high-ceilinged hall was shadowy in the dim glow of a single
oil-lamp which stood on a small table in the centre, piled with
books
and dusty china cats. The light which it cast couldn't reach the
first
landing, which lay in darkness. but she was perfectly aware of
the
small figure crouched on the top step, its rimless eye-glasses
glittering in a caught reflection. Carefully, methodically. she
picked up
one of the many china cats and blew on it. Hard.
  There was a muffled cry from the crouching figure above.
  'Dust. Mouse! Dust!' said Irina.
  `Oh. Countess. you know you forbade me to touch them. I am so
sorry. '
  `All these things are covered in dust. Books, my cats. . .'
  'The front door, you see: It is directly in front of the table
and
every time it is opened and the wind blows. . .'
  'We get dust, ' said Irina. `I know. For over fifty years we
have had
dust.' She started to climb the stairs. holding firmly to the
polished
pine banister.
  Mouse. who was four foot high if she was standing erect, which
was seldom. servitude having given her a permanent crouch of
humility. switched on a light. and hurried down past her mistress
to extinguish the table lamp below.
  'Why are you not in bed?' said Irina. without waiting for an
answer, for she knew that Mouse never went to bed before she
arrived back from wherever she had been.
  'To help you.'
  'Help me!' said Irina. 'With what. pray: '
  `Corsets,' whispered Mouse. 'Your corsets.'
  'Ah yes. You are fortunate that at eighty-three. or are you
eighty-
five: I forget. . .'
  Mouse gave a little cry of distress. 'Eighty-one, Countess.
Eighty-
one only.'
  'Well. . . at whatever age you are, you are lucky to be so
skinny,
so meagre, so small and so weak that you do not need a corset to
carry your frame. I am altogether different. Altogether.'
  'Altogether.' agreed Mouse, preceding her mistress along the
landing to her bedroom. 'Was it a pleasing evening, Countess%
Gay%
There was no sadness. I trust?'
  `Why should there be sadness, tell me: Why: '
  Mouse opened the bedroom door and crouched aside as Irina
entered. 'It was so terrible when that golden man died. So
suddenly,
brutally. . . and we had all been so recently together.'
  She pulled a small padded stool into the centre of the room and
stood deferentially aside as Irina lowered her ample body on to
it.
and then. with fingers as rapid and as curved as the legs of a
scuttling crab, she started to unpin the ruin of the chignon on
her
mistress's head. removing, at the same time, a crumpled snake of
cotton wool, wrapped tightly in dark net, which supported the
handsome edifice of grey hair. stuffing hairpins rapidly into the
pocket of her dressing gown.
  The result of the removal of this halo of support was
surprising
to behold. Irina never did so. For she looked as if she had
suddenly
been capped by a half-closed umbrella of thin, wispy locks, which
stuck out about her shoulders like spokes.
  'A long time ago. all that. They have put the sadness out of
sight.'
  'In only nine months or so: They've not forgotten so soon,
surely: '
  'Not forgotten. Put out of sight. Undo my dress and stop
whimpering, Mouse. you are an over-romantic creature with too
little to do.
Time passes. You will know. One day.'
  Mouse, with her scuttling. crab-like fingers, began unhooking
the
back of the flowing grey dress. 'Countess% I remember things very
well, even if I am romantic. I do not forget.'
  'Dust: On my cats: Hah!'
 'We had such happy. happy times in this house when that
splendid man came to call: there was such laughter! Have you
laughed so much since! What pleasure. Do you remember the time
in the cellar?'
  `Papers to burn. Manuscripts. I don't recall.'
  'He said that our cellar was the one advantage of this house.
So
useful! And with a real furnace. how worried we were that he
would
set us all afire! Do you remember? Standing out there in the yard
watching the smoke come out of the chimney after so many years;
little showers of black paper sailing out to sea. . .'
  She peeled the dress from Irina's shoulders and arms. revealing
ageing. withered flesh wrapped in a surfeit of mixed woollen
vests.
encased in a once white corset. Her fingers started on the hooks
which ran down the back. and Irina gradually started to spill
from
the steel frame of her support.
  `Relief! Such relief!' She murmured as each hook was eased.
'Pride exacts a price. And I think it would be wiser, Tatiana
Ivanova,
if you remembered less. It is not always wise, or convenient.'
  Mouse was momentarily stopped in her industrious efforts. The
use of her formal name was a certain indication of displeasure:
however, she bit a thin lip and went on with her task until the
corset
was quite undone. and removed it discreetly as Irina rose
majestic-
ally in sagging bloomers and a multitude of vests and went
towards
the bedside-table where, ready for her on a tin tray. stood a
half
bottle of vodka, a glass, and three biscuits. She stepped over
the
tumbled folds of her dress.
  'Dear Mousie. A tiny vodka after all my aches and pains. Why
not? A teeny-weeny vodka!'
  Forgiveness! thought Mouse. Forgiveness in the voice! And
bemused with pleasure. her glasses winking, she hurried across
the
room to pour the vodka herself.
  `Thank you. Mousie.' said Irina. 'Thank you. So delicious. .
. you
are a good girl.'
  Mouse stooped to pick up the discarded dress. hung it over her
arm. 'But this I must remember, and you will not be vexed. Atexi
Andreyev telephoned to say that he will be delighted to see you
tomorrow in the drugstore of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. At three
precisely. I had to remember that. hadn't I?'
'The Beverly Wilshire% It's miles from here. How am I to get
there: '
  'Something else I remember,' said Mouse smiling happily as she
folded the panels of the corset together. 'He said that you were
to
take a taxi into town and that he would reimburse you. He said
that
he would be most happy to! Now! There's a real gentleman for you.
Of the old school. A taxi! What a treat.'
  Irina had finished half her drink. 'You may accompany me,' she
said magnanimously. 'Not to the hotel. I do not want you there,
but
you can walk about and look at the shops. We need lavatory paper.
Something else which you have not remembered.'
  Mouse clasped her hands in a mixture of delight and distress.
shook her tiny head from side to side like a metronome. She had
very
little hair. and what there was of it she had cut off close to
her skull.
with a narrow fringe, and dyed an intense black.
  'Oh! But I am dismissible! I was economizing. We have paper
napkins left over from one Christmas, do you remember: But I'll
get it. I'll get it. . . Oh! My blue% The beige. . . what: '
  'Decide for yourself,' said Irina. heaving herself onto her
high
French Empire bed which often reminded her of Charon's boat.
except that it was square at both ends.
  'Can I assist you. Countess? Your nightgown? It is here. . .'
  Irina took another little sip of her drink. lay back in thick
pillows.
'I may very well stay as I am. Go to bed. Mouse. Plan your ward-
robe. '
  Mouse bobbed about the room anxiously. looking to see that all
was secure for the night, that the long dusty curtains were
closed
tight against the morning light, and then she came over to the
bed
and. with the greatest courtesy. unlaced Irina's shoes. removed
them. placed them with the corset reverently and silently in a
cupboard. and hung the grey dress above them.
  'I will go, Countess,' she whispered. 'I will remember the dust
on
your pussy-cats, but I will forget the golden man and the fire
that
day. I will forget all sad things and times. the Good Saviour
knows
that I do.' She touched a little icon on a chain at her throat.
`I
remember only happy things.'
  'Correct.' said Irina. who was mentally starting her long climb
towards another level. 'But do not forget the lavatory paper. We
are
not peasants. Yet.'
  'Countess.' whispered Mouse. and closed the door.
  Irina lay quite still, eyes closed. her hands holding the
half-empty
glass of vodka on her stomach.
  I will forget the golden man and the fire. What an idiol
creature
I have in my life. Why would she remember that: Like a child at
a firework show, one can only suppose. Irina. . . he spoke my
name
so beautifully always. You have the great advantage of an old-
fashioned furnace. . . everyone else is highly modernized. Where
is
one to burn unwanted manuscripts% Is one to throw them into the
trash can. to fly about the streets of Los Angeles like confetti!
That
will not do. So I beg that you will let me use your invaluable
furnace:
  It was a modest bundle in a plastic bag from Bullocks.
Wilshire.
And after we had had our little glass, I went down just to rake
through the cinders and be certain that there was nothing that
could
set the house on fire. Useless to ask Mouse. She is afraid of the
dark.
and the cellar. . . but there was nothing there. Warm flakes of
dead
paper. So sad. So much work destroyed. It seemed so sad. so sad,
so
sad. A little fragment. A little fragment left: black and
charred. Suede.
with a date in faded gold. . . 1979. A journal perhaps? Notes:
So sad. All gone. Nothing left.
  Slowly she reached for the vodka bottle and poured herself
another glassful. It is one way of forgetting.
  A teeny-weeny vodka for Irina. Who said that?
  I did. So sad. Nothing is left. Those fragments, just
fragments. All
that is left of a life. But too late now. Too late. But the child
was
happy tonight. with her little ladybird bracelet. `Ladybird.
ladybird.
fly away home: your house is on fire, and your children are
flown.'
Who was at the table tonight, Irina? Remember. Remember. We
have tea with Andreyev tomorrow.
'Abingdon. Berkshire, sir.'
'Ever get homesick'

chapter 6.
Inauguration Day

Andrew Samuel Shapiro. of Cristal Productions Incorporated, lived
in a Cotswold manor house. set on a third of an acre of land on
North Canon Drive, Beverly Hills. entirely surrounded by an
eight-
foot-high fence of iron railings. painted white, curving lethally
outwards. at the top. It looked like a bear cage.
  `Sheet!' said the White Rat. 'What is this! You got the right
place%'
  On the gates. a notice. `No Cars. Sound Horn for
Identification.'
  'Sound the thing.' said Jonathan.
  'I am just amazed. amazed.'
  The front door opened almost immediately. A tall man stood on
the steps dressed in black trousers and a black and yellow
striped
jacket with the initials Ass on the pocket. He peered down
towards
them through the bars.
  'I'm expected. Jonathan Pool for Mr Shapiro.'
  'Sorry, sir. you'll have to walk,' called the tall man. With
a British
accent.
  A buzzer went off; one of the gates slowly opened.
  'Jeez! It's like a spook movie. What do I do% You want me to
drive
round the block a few times%`
  'No. I'm staying for breakfast. We're going to see the new
President on TV. How long does that last. do you know%'
  'Not an idea. Maybe an hour.'
  'Well. come back at eleven, if I'm not here in the cage just
go
round the block until I am.'
  'Okey-dokey. Have a nice time now.'
  'If you'll follow me. sir. Mr Shapiro is in the breakfast
room.'
  'You`re English I assume, right: '
  'Not on this salary, sir.'
  They went up the flagged steps. into the high. beamed hall
filled
with warming pans and hunting prints. In one corner a grandfather
clock. in the other a rocking chair and a hunting table.
  'Mr Pool.' announced the man from Abingdon.
  The breakfast room was yellow and white. Andy Shapiro rose
from a wing-backed Queen Anne chair. small hands outstretched.
He appeared to consist of two spheres. the smaller being his
head.
`Great to see ya. . . We had a good meeting yesterday, right% Jet
lag
all gone%'
  `About. I slept a little.'
  'Sit down.' said Andy Shapiro indicating another wing-backed
chair tightly covered in white velvet. 'I reckon you'll feel at
home
here. everything in this house is from your country. England. My
wife Shirlee will be down directly. she collects the antiques,
I do the
galleries.'
  'Very fine,' said Jonathan. 'I can see why you have protected
yourself, fenced yourself in. ' He looked along the row of
obligatory
French Impressionists.
  'Those are my little pleasures. You like my Sizzly there? And
my
Brack Great little painter, Brack. I got four of his. And over
the
fire here. see% Well, that is just my greatest. I bought it in
Paris,
France. Know what? Can you guess%'
  'No,' said Jonathan truthfully.
  'Twoloose Lowtrek. You know what% Unfinished. Died before he
could finish it off. See the chalk lines? No paint. Isn`t that
just so
moving% I think it is so moving. So does Shirlee.'
  'You must have a king's ransom in here.'
  Andy Shapiro giggled, clapped his hands. 'This is just the
break-
fast room. Wait'll you see the drawing room. and my den.'
  'It's very impressive.'
  'But I want you to know that I worked for it! Sure as hell did.
When I arrived in this country I was age five. Know what my first
job was: Cutting all the buttons and things off of the rags they
shipped to the pulp-mills. Buttons and hooks and things. They
foul
up the machinery. That's what I did.'
'You`ve come a long way.
  'I sure as bloody hell have. Kiev. That's where.'
  The breakfast was wheeled silently into the room by the tall
man
and two maids. chairs set around the table, which was placed so
that it directly faced the television. The smell of coffee and
some-
thing toasted was pleasing. And real.
  `And now we will be watching the Inauguration of our new
President. A memorable day for all America. and the whole Western
world. Who else is there% Who has the clout: No one. Not in
Germany, nor your country. nor France. Nowhere. Answer me
that: ' he added inconsequentially. and without waiting for one
he
instructed the tall man to inform Mrs Shapiro that she was late.
  `She is already on her way down, sir. She was informed moments
ago,' said the tall man the instant that Shirlee Shapiro arrived
at
the door.
  'My timing! See. Daddy? Right on cue.' And turning to Jonathan.
she said. `I never was late in my whole life for a single cue
ever. I
was a dancer - I may not look it now, but I was really hot,
really
good. wasn't I, Daddy% Good?'
  'Right.' said Andy Shapiro. `This is Jonathan Pool. He wrote
The
Familiars. '
  'Oh! Oh. of course! I'm so pleased to meet you. now come and
sit
down and have some chow. You sit between Daddy and me. Daddy
at that end, me here. Can we all see the TV okay. . . I don't
want
to miss one itsy-bitsy second.'
  The television was on. without sound: people milling about on
a
cold day in Washington.
  Shirlee Shapiro had had her face hauled up and dragged behind
her ears so many times that the skin was drum-taut, and she was
unable to smile: enamelled in ivory and peach. small blue eyes
rimmed with heavy fur lashes. Her hair was an astonishing
confection of golden loops and twirls. towering over her bland
face like a
cushion, and must once have graced the heads of at least ten
novice
nuns. judging by its size and weight. The hands were long, thin,
bony. like those of a mummy. liver-spots showing through the
white make-up. her nails crimson plastic, an inch long.
  She wore too tight Pucci pants and a Hermes shirt which was
dragged down from one shoulder by a giant diamond clip with an
emerald centre. which matched the ring on her left hand: gold
  bracelets hung heavily from both wrists. knuckle-dusters in
weight.
  clonking and clanking against the porcelain on the table as she
started the breakfast.
  'Daddy and I just take fruit juice and yoghurt. But Arnold has
a
  real traditional English breakfast all ready for you, isn't
that right,
  Arnold: ' Arnold admitted that it was. and started to serve
Jonathan
  bacon and eggs and a toasted muffin. which surprised him. His
  surprise must have communicated itself to Arnold.
  'A toasted muffin. sir. Very traditional, I would say?'
  'Very. Thank you.'
  'And we have sausages, sir, if you would. . .'
  Andy Shapiro gave a shrill cry of terror. 'It's starting! It's
starting!
  Arnold. get the damn sound on right this minute!'
Jonathan realized that his breakfast was lost. He dare not move.
  'It's Ronnie! There he is! Oh Ronnie, I love you!' cried
Shirlee,
  blowing kisses.
  Andy grunted, 'Hold it Shirlee, hold it.'
i 'But he's for the Right, isn't he?'
I, 'I'm trying to hear what's happening, Shirlee.'
  'Well. . . I am too. . . and I'm for the Right. He looks so
great!'
' They listened attentively to the swearing-in of the new
President.
  Shirlee. at the end of his speech, had pressed a yellow table
napkin
  to her mouth; it was the nearest that her face would allow her
to
I show emotion.
  'His make-up.' said Andy Shapiro. 'Why did they finish it at
his
  chin. for Godssakes% Looks like a turtle.'
  'He looks just great. Inspiring. And there's Nancy! She's so
  damned smart, so neat! Everyone else in black. or dark blue.
and
  Nancy in pink!. . . That's so damned clever; she's going to get
  noticed.'
  'She will,' said Andy.
  'Would you call that pink. Jonathan?'
  'Coral perhaps: Bright coral: '
  'She looks like a fire hydrant.' said Andy. 'And what's on her
  head: '
  'At hat. that's what. isn't that the cutest hat you ever saw%'
  'Looks to me like one of those French things you get for
breakfast
  ..hot...'
  'A croissant.' suggested Jonathan eyeing his congealed eggs and
soggy muffin.
  'That's what it is. You get them hot.'
  'It's neat.' said Shirlee. 'So everyone can see her from all
angles.
Nancy knows all the tricks.'
  `Betcha,' said Andy. 'Hey! What did he just say, that guy. .
. you
talk too much. Shirlee. . . did he say the hostages were going
to be
freed% That's what he said to the President? Did he say that?
Christ!'
  `I think he did. . . I didn't hear properly,' said Jonathan.
`But that's
what it sounded like.'
  'We are seeing history in the making,' said Shirlee.
  'But we can't hear it being made.' said Andy Shapiro. `because
you talk all the time.'
  Arnold returned silently. removed Jonathan's untouched plate.
replaced it with a new one under a metal cover.
  'Very hot. sir,' he murmured.
  Andy Shapiro took a long cigar from his breast pocket. `That's
what it is. They have released the hostages! It's fantastic! Two
great
deals on the same day. This is a solemn moment for the united
States.'
  'I beg your pardon.' said Jonathan as Arnold removed the metal
cover to reveal a freshly cooked breakfast: without a muffin.
'But
I think it is an unconfirmed report at the moment.'
  'Maybe.' said Andy Shapiro. 'Maybe. But it'll be confirmed,
you'll
see. We don't get kicked around by no Ayatollah. Arnold, you can
kill the picture. we seen all we need to. . .'
  'If there's a motorcade hold it!' said Shirlee.
  'What's the big deal with a motorcade%' said Andy. lighting his
cigar.
  'That's where they'll have a shot at him. Remember% Kennedy
and Dallas: '
  'Who the hell is going to shoot Ronnie: They just elected him!
He's the President!'
  'Well, if they did. it would be in the motorcade.'
  'Turn the damn thing off.'
  The room was suddenly silent apart from Jonathan's knife and
fork.
'I think that was really mean, Andy.'
  'You're gruesome. Shirlee. Sometimes you are just gruesome.'
  'Oh! You and all your big words. Didn't you get a muffin,
Jonathan: '
  'I'm fine with this, really. Thank you so much.'
  'You get my messages I left at the hotel last night%' said Andy
suddenly.
  'I did indeed. I'm sorry. I was out.'
  'It's fine. No problem. I just had some ideas about the script.
. .
we can talk when you are through with that.'
  `Did you go to a great party?' said Shirlee, looking anxiously
at
her lips in a small hand-mirror which had lain concealed beside
her
bowl of yoghurt. She flicked the tip of her tongue about like a
basking adder.
  'Not great. Just old friends. In Brentwood.'
  'Brentwood:' Shirlee slid the compact under her plate. 'And
where is Brentwood%'
  'Well. . . we went down Wilshire. then on to San Vicente, and
then. . .'
  'I never been there.' said Shirlee.
  'It's towards the ocean.' said Andy. `Santa Monica, that
aways.'
  'You mean west of Sunset%'
  'My wife.' said Andy heavily. `does not know where she lives.
Sunset Boulevard. honey, runs right through Hollywood: you
know that. Then it comes along through here, Beverly Hills.
Right?'
  'And it stops right here.'
  'It does not. It makes a turn north by the Los Angeles Country
Club and then goes right on down to the Palisades.'
  'I don't know that part. I never even been there. Anywhere
after
Beverly Hills is west. I don't go beyond that. Who lives in
Brentwood
anyway: '
  'People.' said Andy. 'All kinds of people. Writers, painters.
ordinary people, people in television.'
  'Television!' said Shirlee, with withering scorn. `What do I
know
about television people% We're picture people.'
  'You finished: ' said Andy to Jonathan.
  'Just my coffee. . .'
  'Bring it with you, we'll go to the den. I got some ideas I'd
like
to kick around with you. We had a great meeting yesterday. right:
Very fruitful. constructive. I think we have something going for
us
with a truly great potential.'
  `Television.' said Shirlee, getting to her feet. touching her
piled
hair with care to ascertain that it was still a part of her.
'television
is the asshole of the business.' She put out a hand towards
Jonathan. which he took.
  Unable to muster any muscular expression on her enamelled
face. she concentrated on a flashing off ur eyelashes which
signified.
for her, a smile of welcome and pleasure. 'And when Daddy and you
are through with putting your heads together in the den, maybe
we
can fix a date for dinner here? A six or an eight or a twelve.
. . you
ask any and all of your friends from, uh. . . Brentwood. . . I'd
be so
interested.'
  The den was pine panelled and full of buttoned-leather
armchairs
grouped about a vast partner's desk with a scarlet leather top.
and
a bank of five telephones. Red, green. ivory. blue and black. In
the
centre Jonathan saw his buff coloured script of The Familiars.
He
also saw the Picassos on the pine walls.
  Andy hustled himself behind the desk, took his seat in a swivel
chair, pointed to one in front of him. 'Sit there, Jonathan.
Right
there. Good and close. Partners. eh?' Apart from the lonely
script
in dead centre. and the telephones. there was a brass student
lamp
with a green shade. a Lalique sealion, and a small pot of
artificial
marigolds. `Quite comfortable% You want more coffee?'
  'Quite comfortable. thank you. No more coffee.'
  'Right.' said Andy, and leaning over the width of the desk he
addressed the small pot of marigolds. 'Okay, are we running.
Ellen?'
A green light flashed on the blue telephone three times. `Now.
. .'
he sat back, clasped his small pudgy hands together. `Well. Like
I
said. Jonathan. this.' he tapped the buffcovered script with one
immaculately manicured finger, 'has a lot of potentials. I say
this
in the plural you understand: potentials. not potential. That's
good,
right%'
  'It sounds good. yes.'
  'But a lot. and I hate for to say this. Jonathan. has to go
from this
script of yours. A lot.' .
  'Oh.'
'As it stands. it doesn't.'
'Ah.'
  'You see what I mean: '
  'Um. . . yes. . .' said Jonathan. Who didn't.
  'Now we had a great meeting yesterday, right. You, me, Don.
Mel.
Art. . . they were very enthused, you could feel that, couldn't
you%'
  'Ummm. Yes.'
  'A great bunch of guys. We've been together a long while. And
Art got the Oscar for Moonride two years ago, we don't forget
that
easy. Right%'
  'Right.'
  'Well, thing is. after you left, after we had had that very
constructive, very informative, ongoing discussion, we got to
kicking things
around. you know the way fellers do? We started taking it all
apart.'
  'I see.'
  'Well, you have to take things apart to see if they'll go back
together again.'
  'And%'
  'They didn't.'
  'They didn't: '
  'No. In this form, at this moment in time. as it stands at
present.
it is not of today.'
  Jonathan shifted uneasily in his chair. 'It's only a first
draft. you
know: It's not a final one.'
  'Shit! I know it's the first draft. I been in this business a
million
years. think I don't know a first from a final for Chrissakes?
But it
just will not do.'
  'But yesterday you all seemed to agree that it would.'
  Andy leant back in his swivel chair, swung a little to the
right.
a little to the left. his fingers to his lips in thought.
'Jonathan.' he
said finally. 'Something you got to learn. Yesterday is not
today. It
is not tomorrow. It is gone.'
  'Well, perhaps you can tell me where I've gone wrong. . .'
  `I can do that, sure. First. The title. The Familiars. It is
confusing
to an audience. what the hell does The Familiars mean%'
  'A sale of sixty-five thousand in Europe. one hundred and fifty
thousand in America. and a big paperback deal. That's what it
means.'
  'Look. I know it sold well. Why do you think we made a hand-
some offer for the first option? I know you're into paperback.
but
it is not a viable title for Americans.'
  'It was for one hundred and fifty thousand of them. And a
paperback deal.'
  'As a book.'
  'As a book.'
  'People who read books do not. I repeat do not. go to the
movies.
If they went to the movies they wouldn't read books. Is that
quite
clear%'
  'Almost.'
  'So we all agreed that we will have to change the title, and
for
another we feel that the character of, what in hell is the girl's
name,
the one who gets the heebie jeebies all the time?'
  'Rose: '
  'Got it. Rose. We lose her.'
  'Lose her? But she's the main character.'
  'Lose her and make her someone different.'
  'Different: Like what%'
  Andy leant on his desk, hands still clasped, little eyes
sparkling.
`Like a man!'
  'A man!'
  'Yeah. In one. Great chemistry. Don had this idea last night.
Remember the Hitchcock movie. Psycho: Great movie. Made a
cleaning. Now he used a man for the main character. Great
innovation!'
  'But Rose is a simple country girl who sees visions and. . .'
  'I already read the script!' said Andy. thumping it hard.
  'But it wouldn't work with a man, honestly. A simple, peasant
girl in Ireland. . '
  'That's out too.'
  `What's out: '
  'Ireland is out. It has dangerous connotations here in America.
we'd lose all the Irish. they'd boycott it if it was made in
Ireland.
There's a strong feeling about that country here and what your
country is doing to it. Excuse me if I'm rude.'
  'But Andy! It's not a political story! Nothing happens against
Ireland or the Irish. they are the centre of the story for God's
sake
. . . It has to be Ireland.'
  'No. It does not have to be.' He winked knowingly. 'Haiti!'
  'Haiti: '
  'Don't you see it% We lift the whole story. reverse it. set it
in the
jungle. Papa Doc, and all the voodoo. I mean it's just there
ready
and waiting to be put on screen. And all those Tootoo Macoots.
you
know who I mean, the Secret Police. guys in black glasses,
wonderful touches we get there. Menace.'
  'It has nothing to do with the book.'
  'Correct. Now look. We change books around in the movies. If
they don't work for us we make 'em work. Our way.'
  'But you're talking about Graham Greene. . . he's already done
it.'
  'No. no. now don't get uptight with me. Jonathan. I never heard
of this Graham Greene. Forget him. What's bugging you suddenly?'
  'Why did you buy an opinion and why did you ask me to write the
first draft of the screenplay?'
  Andy unclasped his hands. studied his nails, counted each one
to be certain they were still there. and that he had, perhaps.
not
grown another. He looked up at Jonathan kindly.
  'Good manners. Jonathan. That's what. We liked the book. read
the reviews. Shirlee was very, very high on it. She is my reader.
I
don't have time to read books, I read scripts and minutes, that
takes
all my time. But it had great reviews, she was very enthused. so
we
made the offer. If you will forgive me. every British agent gets
ants
in his pants when Hollywood makes an offer for the option on a
book. They got a great respect for Hollywood. They want the most
so they settle for a small financial outlay. We, frankly, buy
cheap
From British agents. They stand in line to sell us anything. See:
And
so we thought. hell, the guy who wrote the thing would be great
at writing a first draft screenplay. Right: '
  'Right.'
  'But last night, after our great meeting together. after you
had
gone. Don and Art realized that it wasn't feasible. It doesn't
work
in visionary terms. So. well. we put our heads together and Art
suggested a whole new outline. The voodoo, steamy jungles, this
guy who is trapped with his visions. It is irresistible. . . and
you have
to remember that Art won the Oscar just a few years ago. for
Moonride, and that counts. He knows. He's the director after all.
We'll have lotsa mystery. fear. visions. so on. . . it'll be a
smash.'
  'Well. It seems that I have wasted your time. . . everyone's
time.'
  'Oh. Jonathan. don't be like that! This is movies! We just
start in
all over again: we got a good idea from you, we re-do it all
over.
Like the title: Voodoo Death. How's that% Of course it's only a
working title right now. We have to try it on the distributors,
they
say that "Death" is death to the box-office. They need sex. but
I
don't see how we can work sex in. just at present. The Story
Department are right this minute working on that.'
  'Story Department: '
  'We got eight great writers busy hammering at their typewriters
on your story.'
  `But it won't be my story.'
  'You had the idea, didn't you? And we keep the priest. by the
way.'
  'The priest%'
  'Yeah, this Father Whatever. He's good. We won't junk him. I
would have suggested some time ago that Charlton Heston would
have been terrific in the part, just terrific. but we do things
a
different way now. Know what? We feed all the data about the
characters into the computer, plus - mark this - plus the names
of
the players we all think would be great for the parts, and the
computer delivers its chosen list. That is what we use. The
computer
knows the bankability, and suitability. of every actor and
actress in
this town.'
  'You mean you cast by computer%'
  'That's what I mean. Today is today. Right?'
  'So I'm out. I mean you don't need me any more?'
  'Well. . . I'd be glad if you just hung around town for a week.
We
paid a lot for this book. your work. the fare, you know. all the
little
incidentals. . .'
  'The fruit basket from Gourmet Heavens%'
  'You got that% Great. Our little welcome to Hollywood and
Cristal
Productions. A snack if you got hungry. it was a courtesy. think
nothing of it. . . hope you enjoyed it anyways.'
  'The processed cheese was like soap. the brandy was fine. the
crackers were damp. and the wine tasted of piss. the apples of
wet
felt. Otherwise it was a sweet gesture.'
  Andy looked startled. Unable to think of a reply he hurried
back
to the subject which he knew best. 'Just hang about until the end
of the week, have some fun. We might want your advice here and
there. maybe you'll come up with a great idea.' He cocked his
head
to one side. `We get our money's worth that away, right? Business
is business. Stay till we say. When are you booked out?'
  'Sunday night.'
  'We'll call you Saturday unless we call you before. ' He got
up from
the desk. bent down to the pot of marigolds. `Ellen? You got all
that?'
  The blue telephone blinked its fierce green eye three times.
  'Great. Just cancel out Mr Pool's remarks about the cheese and
the wine, right% Keep in his remark that it was a "sweet gesture"
. . . otherwise wipe it. "It was a sweet gesture". okay%' The
green
light flashed, Andy came round the desk, his little hand
outstretched.
'Jonathan, it's been great talking with you. So constructive. Now
I have to go and freshen up a little. I got Moses Steenberger
coming
along, know Moses% Great guy. he did Ash Wednesday. and we want
him for another project real soon. . . come and say goodbye to
Shirlee. . .'
  She was sitting in the breakfast room at an enormous tapestry
frame. to which was fixed a magnifying glass of some proportion,
so that she could look at her work without wearing glasses. She
pulled a length of thick wool thread upwards as they entered.
  'Jonathan and I had a great time. Great conversationalist. Your
car here: '
  'He will be.'
  Shirlee shook the hand which held the needle and thick wool in
his direction. 'I know where you were having your party!' she
said
roguishly. Or giving a near approximation of that.
  'You do: That's clever. . .'
  'At Hugo Arlington's house. I didn't know he lived down there.'
  `He doesn't. He's dead.'
  'But. . . oh yes. . . I remember. Anyway it's in the Hollywood
Reporter. You were with Sybil Witt, and Boris Kragujevac. . .
very
international.' She stuck the needle back into the canvas. `Sybil
Witt
is a supporter of Castro's. did you know? Cuba. She's nuts about
Cuba.'
  'Ronnie will get all that changed.' said Andy heavily.
  'Oh sure! Ronnie and Nancy are Right, real Right. No gays no
Commies no Democrats. You should tþe careful. Jonathan, but of
course you are a stranger in town. how would you know? But
watch your step, honey. the people you mix with. It gets around.
Fast. And that's not good. Things are going to change in this
place.
Now I know why I didn't know Brentwood! It's full of Radicals.
. .
and Miratova was there: I mean it was all Middle Europe!'
  'Alice Arlington is a very old friend.' said Jonathan. `From
England.'
  'I remember: she was so upset when he got killed in that crash.
Now I remember the pictures of her. she was upset. poor woman.
Perhaps they were people he knew.'
  'Who%' said Andy. starting to feel restless.
  'That Hugo Arlington. He had some of the weirdest people around
him. I mean weird.'
  'They really didn't seem weird to me,' said Jonathan
hopelessly,
watching her stab the canvas. drag the wool towards the
magnifying glass.
  'Sybil Witt has to be weird. Has to be. She marches for nuclear
disarmament. she's against the death penalty, she even went to
that
black's funeral. who was he Daddy? Martin Luther King. . . she'll
do anything. She even gives interviews about the dissidents in
Russia. Now. if they don't like the Commie government how come
they voted them in? She's weird. Talented, I agree, but weird.
And
now Cuba. The new chic thing. and they are right across from
Florida! My momma stays in Florida. . . I mean, I worry.'
  She stabbed the canvas again and again. Andy. who had
anxiously sat down (he found that standing for longer than five
minutes fatigued him), suddenly got to his feet. 'Moses
Steenberger
must be late. He's always so punctual.'
  `Moses is a darling man,' said Shirlee firmly. and turned
suddenly
towards Jonathan as if he had contradicted her, the needle raised
aloft
like a poisoned dart ready for throwing. 'So darling. All his
family
were sent to that place in Poland, Auswich. . . he has no one
left.'
  'I'm dreadfully sorry.'
  'But he was very brave. Do you know that every week for three
whole years he sent them a food parcel from here to that place.
Candy. pineapple chunks. canned milk. God! He was so kind and
brave. He gave them happiness before. . . well, before those
damned
Polacks got them all.'
  'Germans,' said Andy miserably, looking through the window.
  `What's the difference?' said Shirlee. 'Only the name.'
  Outside a horn sounded, Andy hurried from the room and
collided with Arnold who was struggling into his striped jacket.
  'Is it a baby-blue Rolls: ' cried Andy. hands clasped.
  'An orange Ford, sir,' said Arnold.
  'That's mine. . .' Jonathan turned to Shirlee. 'I'm leaving.
Mrs
Shapiro. Thank you for such a splendid breakfast. and the
television
and so on.'
  'That's nothing. We were so happy you came. Don't you think
the new title is just great: Voodoo Death. I hope they get to use
that,
and I think changing the girl for a man is a brilliant stroke of.
. .
well. . . it's brilliance.'
  'I'm certain it will be.'
  'It was very nasty of you to speak so badly about Daddy's
little present to you. About the wine and the apples. That was
not
kind.'
'No. it was not.'
  'We're booked clean through till Sunday, Jonathan. When did
you say you fly out?'
  'Sunday.'
  'Oh. Too bad. That's real sad. But it was just darling of you
to
come this morning on such an historic day. You made it complete.'
She turned back to her tapestry, and left him to go alone into
the
hall, empty except for Arnold.
  `Mr Shapiro had to take an urgent. . . telephone call. sir. He
sent
his regards.'
  `Thank you. It's been a very historic morning.'
  'Very. If you'll excuse me. sir. my grandmother used to say,
"It
takes all kinds. . . .
  'Arnold, she was dead right.' said Jonathan, and hurried down
the flagged steps to his orange Ford and the White Rat. With joy.
  'Biff. bang, wallop. and finally slam!' said Jonathan. 'It
really was
the most extraordinary morning. A house enclosed in a bear's
cage,
literally. Breakfast while the President got elected in a room
chock-
a-block with Impressionists which would have made the directors
of the Tate, ill with envy, my entire script rewritten overnight
by
three hustlers - I met them and I know - and the whole business
recorded on tape. while Medusa sat doing her tatting and
listening
to every word in another room.' He took a long drink of iced
water.
'Then she gave me the choke-off for dinner because I made some
ungenerous remarks about that God-awful basket the children
opened at Alice's last night. Goodness! I am glad to see you. .
. be
with you. away from all that.'
  `Were you very uncomplimentary: About the basket of groceries:
' said Lea.
'I was rather. Said the wine tasted of piss.
'It did.'
  'The cheese of soap.'
  'Correct. The brandy was all right, though.'
  'I said that. Anyway. I won't have to dine with them. I'll
probably
never see them again in my life.'
  'But what about your script. book. whatever it is%'
  'They took an option for a year. It's up in two weeks. . . I'll
do
my best to block another. if it comes. Otherwise. . .' Jonathan
shrugged and stared up into the struggling vine above their
table.
'This is a rum place.' he said.
  'This place: Or Los Angeles%'
  'Both really. Cultural shock. I suppose.'
  'Good job we were given the worst table in the restaurant.
stuck
in a corner. We can watch and comment.'
  'I hope we'll get fed.'
  'They might forget. Possible. We aren't famous, you see.'
  Jonathan looked out across the brilliant, chattering mass.
Jammed under high umbrellas and some wispy palm trees. `There
are famous people here% Really%'
  'Well. no Garbo, no Bergman, no Dietrich or Cary Grant. But
these people think they are. To themselves anyway. They are
called
The Beautiful People. Can you credit that: '
  'It's like a monstrous aviary.'
  'Just what Nettles said. A cage of macaws. were his words.
Apparently this was a parking lot originally. then they paved it.
built the kitchens and a very plush bar. planted a few sad
creepery
things. stuck in the parasols and it's become the absolute "in"
place
for wheeling and dealing, ditching and bitching.'
  'Macaws.' said Jonathan. 'And parrots. Preening and
screeching.'
  'The noise goes up a decibel or two with each Martini. I don't
know why.'
'Panic, most probably.'
'Panic?'
  'like the British abroad. They have to shout to be understood.
to
dominate. If these people don't keep talking they might be forced
to
think. And that frightens them.'
  'You are clever. Goodness.'
  `I am sometimes. I wasn't very clever this morning. I'm
afraid.'
  'make up for it now. astonish me with your wisdom.'
  'No, you do that. The macaws and the parrots, tell me. who are
they%'
  'Ummm. Actresses. actresses who have been forgotten, or begun
slipping. Producers' wives. directors' wives. Hopeful actresses.
And
some tarts. of course.'
  'Good. The sparrows: '
  'Can't see any.'
'There are one or two. At the back tables like us.'
'Out-of town tourists.'
'The rooks and crows?'
  'Agents, columnists.'
  'The birds of prey% The kestrel crowd? Trim. tweedy,
bright-eyed
. . clawed%'
  'Producers. lawyers, divorce attorneys. smart doctors,
directors.'
  'The magpies and the jays?'
  'Publicists and press. Anyway. carnivorous.'
  `Very knowledgeable. I'm amazed.'
  'Only three weeks in this town. and you learn fast. Of course,
it's
terribly easy to send this place up. make fun of it. Los Angeles.
or
this part anyway. But I have met some of the kindest people here
I've ever met in my life. Warm. affectionate. longing for one to
like
it here. to share it. to be happy. I suppose that if one does.
it makes
them feel reassured that they are happy too. It's easy to kick
the
place in the shins because everything is so absurd, so
pretentious.
It's all wrong and all fake. but I'll look back on this trip with
perhaps
some bewilderment. but a certain affection.'
  Jonathan pricked a series of holes with the prongs of his fork
in
his empty avocado pear skin. 'Where do you live? In England. I
mean.'
  'A small terraced house near Sloane Square. Which I can't
afford. '
  'Married?'
  Lea, who had placed her elbows on the table and cupped her chin
in her hands. suddenly withdrew them sharply. as if in response
to
a silent rebuke. 'No! Goodness no. I'm a maiden lady. Bit over
the
hump, if you follow me. No longer in my spring. Shades of autumn
on the way.'
  `Balls! Terrible connotations of those wispy crocuses and
September morns. . .'
  `Don't you loathe them%' She had pulled a length of hair across
her lips and was chewing thoughtfully on it.
  'Loathe them. Are you fearfully hungry: '
  `Starved. Are you?'
  'Starved.'
  'No. I meant married%' She pitched the question casually into
a
chatter of parrots beside them.
  'Was. For a short time. Nice girl. not her fault. Entirely
mine.'
  'Sorry. '
  'Not at all. She wrote children's books. not half bad as a
matter
of fact. If you happen to like children's books.'
  'I don't.'
  'No more do I. But she was very pretty in a wimple-and-hand-
embroidered way. you know: We had a cottage at Faringdon. so
that we could both write in peace and contentment.'
  'But no go: '
  'Well. . . I got a bit fed up with natural foods and real
compost
and lots of roughage and bloody pulses and prunes.'
  `Goodness! But didn't you know about those before: '
  'Not really, no. Isn't it odd: One really doesn't until it's
the Death
Do Us Part bit. . . I can't imagine why. She was warm and sweet.
wonderfully loving. Except that the loving extended to every
stray
dog and cat between Oxford and Reading, plus Shetland ponies. She
won lots of cups and rosettes with her ponies. . . and wrote her
books as well.'
  'About Shetland ponies%'
  'There were quite a few 1 think.' He folded the pulp of avocado
skin
into a neat package with his fork. 'all-matched, I think was the
phrase she used, and of course she was dead right. Anyway, we
packed it all in after a couple of years. My fault entirely. I
married
her because I þ`as desperately in love with Alice and knew that
I
could never have her, because she was more in love with Hugo
Arlington than life itself. So really I did a pretty foul thing.
Married
a perfectly nice woman on the rebound and after three weeks.
three
weeks mark you. I was ready to slit my throat.' He looked up at
her
and smiled suddenly. 'I don't know why the hell I'm telling you
all
this.'
'Because I asked.'
  'I suppose so. Full disaster anyway. two perfectly incompatible
people joined together in holy matrimony. Guilt on my side, be-
wilderment on hers. Anyway she's now exceedingly happy in
Devon, writing away like billy-ho about fairies in harebells.
squirrels
in polka-dot skirts and talking badgers. And breeding ruddy
ponies.
Good luck to her. She deserves it all.'
  A slender waiter eeled his way sinuously through the too close
tables and stood before them. swaying slightly. 'You wanna cold
chicken and beefsteak tomato, right? And one Garden Salad. okay%'
  'Right.' said Jonathan.
  The waiter. singing under his breath. cleared the first course.
set
the second. 'And two glasses of buttermilk. right?'
  'Wrong.' said Jonathan.
  `Wrong? Who's wrong?'
  'No buttermilk. We didn't order buttermilk, sorry.'
  'You did too! It's on the paper. Wanna see the paper% The order
paper% Is here. right here. you take a look.' He thumped the
piece
of paper on the table.
  Jonathan cleared his throat. 'This is for table eighteen.'
  'So what's this table%' He found the plastic disc, read the
number
slowly. 'Seven! Hell's a virgin!'
  'Sorry. But everything else is just fine.'
  'Everything else is just fine,' said the waiter. 'Holy cow! Two
buttermilks. . .' He twisted his way back to the restaurant.
  Lea started to eat her Garden Salad in a preoccupied manner,
picking out odd bits and pieces with her fork, a round of radish.
a
sliver of chicken, staring before her absently.
  'You gone away for good?' said Jonathan.
  She looked up at him in vague surprise. 'Not good. No. I was
thinking.'
  'That came across. Food all right: '
  `Well. it's green. shall we say% I was thinking how odd it is
that
I am also a bad picker. Gentlemen. I mean. I never actually got
married though. Thank God. When I see what the "husbands" have
become. I mean the ones I might have swooned at the altar with.
Always the Flash-Harry type, do you know? Always older too. I
suppose that's because I am a poor, lone Orphan Annie. Looking
for
a father.'
  'Are you %'
  'An orphan. yes. But I have a perfectly amazing man who loves
me and puts up with me to an incredible degree. Geoffrey Nettles
- well you know, you met him last night.' She speared a small
piece
of something green, put it in her mouth. chewed for a time. 'No.
what I mean is, that it was always me who got left. I do think
that
a bit peculiar. I'm not all that bad looking. am I? Would you say
I
was all right% Impersonally speaking. I mean?'
  'I couldn't speak impersonally on that subject.'
  'Couldn't you: Oh. Oh well. that's quite nice. Thanks. But the
thing is. . . I'm finding this very difficult to put together.
. . I
never left the men I thought that I loved. They all left me. And
now
that you have told me about your ex-wife. I have a feeling that
perhaps I was a bit like her myself. Oh no! Not pulses and
dreadful
prunes. .
  'Or fairies in harebells%'
  'Or those. But I have a hideous feeling that I did perhaps
cling a
bit. Bindweed. I think I put them off; strangled the plant of
life.
Goodness! What a time to find out!'
  'You honestly don't look the bindweed type. Clinging. Far too
cool. elegant, cautious.'
  'I'm not cautious at all! I charge in where angels fear to
tread.
And that's what it is, of course: fear. A woman hitting her
thirties
gets panicked. Visions of that shelf. on which one is left. start
to
loom. I think that I could do with another glass of wine. is
there
more: Oh dear. this is true confession time.'
  'Masses.' He filled her glass. 'You know. in this extraordinary
aviary you look just like an egret.'
  'Do I: I'm not certain if that's a compliment or not. Are you
still
suffering from culture shock%'
  'No. I mean among all the macaws and parrots. So elegant.
white.
so graceful. You really are.'
  'It's a compliment I begin to gather% My white Givenchy cotton
and no make-up: '
  'Perhaps. No. Not as simple as that.'
  'Egrets have fearful pointed beaks. don't they% Splash about
in the
paddy fields: '
  'I think so. But they are very beautiful.'
  'It is a compliment. You are nice.'
  'That's all right. They have long legs too. Slim, long legs.
. .'
  'Mine are! Isn't that convenient! It's the beak that worries
me: I
mean, do tell me. Honestly? Have I got a long nose: Is that what
it is%'
  'Christ. no!'
  'It could be a reason for every one of my chosen mates to
leave,
couldn't it?'
  'You are a lunatic. You must know.'
  'Know about my nose? One doesn't. One has had the thing for
so long that one gets quite used to it.'
  `No. not that. But that you are beautiful. Amazingly
beautiful.'
  She looked at him through narrowed eyes. the glass at her lips.
'You've been boozing with Mr Shapiro. I do declare.' Her heart
stopped. Restarted.
  'Coffee. I speak with the full authority of a man who has, for
years.
been besottedly in love with one ravishing creature. Alice
Arlington
was my air. my water, my sun and my rain. She was my whole
existence. I yearned and yearned for her.'
  Lea placed her glass on the table and took a forkful of mangled
lettuce.
  'Isn't it sad how "yearned" rhymes with "spurned"%'
  'And I was. Thoroughly. But I hung about mooning, hoping for
any little crumb from her table. . .'
  Lea looked up at him directly. eyes smiling. long fingers
stroking
her hair. 'Get any: '
  'Once. I reminded her of it last night. in the most oblique
way.
and all that she could remember was the meal we had.'
  Lea covered her eyes with both hands. shook her head. `Oh Lord!
Isn't it simply awful being in love: I am sorry. really.'
  `Frankly. I think it's pretty marvellous.'
  'Well. you're very brave. I mean with that Yugoslav man.
Dubrovnik, who drank all your brandy. . . perhaps I mean patient.
not brave, do I%'
  'I don't know. But I'm not speaking of Alice actually.'
  'Oh.' Lea laid her fork at the edge of her plate. `I wonder if
they
perhaps have any cheese here? They don't in America, isn't that
strange% Could we get hold of that dancing waiter again. and
ask?'
  'I was talking. if you want to know. about you.'
  'But not that shiny orange processed stuff, real cheese.'
  'I told you last night that I had laid a ghost. didn't I?'
  'So you did. Rather a coarse remark, I thought.'
  'Perhaps it was. It was the only thing I could say under the
circumstances. When you came into that room last night, I knew
instantly that the mooring ropes had been cast off, the sand-
bags chucked out. I was a balloon, soaring away, adrift. full of
helium. . .'
  'Hot air.' She was laughing. but aware of a growing sense of
unease within herself.
  'What do you mean. hot air?'
  'For balloons. Airships use helium, don't they%'
  'Look. Lea. this is not a discussion on aeronautics. A ghost
had
been laid. I am released. . . free.'
  The unease grew rapidly into panic. She became, instantly,
distracted. 'I do wish we could catch that dancing waiter. For
some
cheese. Every time one needs them they fade away. . . perhaps if
you
shouted or something: '
  'And it was you who did that. Understand? Can you?'
  She sat looking at him in silence. heart thudding in her
throat.
daring not to speak for fear that her voice would sound as uneven
as her pulse.
  'Can you% Do you: Say yes or no. Say something, for God's
sake!'
  'I don't know what to say. I. . . well. . . thank you.' She
cleared
her throat. shook her head, pulled a strand of hair from across
her
chin.
'I don't think that you have taken it in.
  'I have! I have. I was thinking of. . . not that shiny orange
stuff.
In cellophane.'
  'You're still on that bloody cheese!'
'Because I'm terrified.'
'Of what: '
  'Of what you'll say next.' She started picking industriously
at the
side of her thumb. 'I'm only talking about cheese because I'm
trying
to change the subject. . .'
  'Well don't! What's the matter% Is it me? I'm not Flash Harry
enough, is that it?'
  'No! Don't be so silly. So idiotic. What a ridiculous thing to
say.'
  'Well what. . .'
  'Jonathan, do shut up, please. I know what you're going to say,
and I don't want you to. . .'
  .Why:,
  'Because if you said it, and you didn't really mean it, I think
that
I'd...well...'
  `Well what% Look at me. What?'
  She looked at him. and he was surprised to see that her eyes
were
bright with tears.
  'I'm going to say it. Lea. I don't know where it'll take us.
but I'll
mean it.'
  'You don't know anything about me. . .' she said.
  'Enough.'
  'Nothing really. My mother was Eurasian.'
  'Mine was French. Worry you?'
  She shook her head. pulling at her thumb. `Don't even know
what I do for a living, how I live, anything.' She shrugged hope-
lessly.
  'I don't honestly think that it matters. do you? Unless, of
course.
you are vastly rich with great estates. terribly social, bully
me, hold
the purse strings. So on. Wouldn't care for that much.'
  'No. But you didn't know about pulses and prunes with your
other wife.'
  'Ex.'
  'Ex. then. Sorry. You said you didn't find those things out
until
Death Do Us Part.'
  'Did I: '


  'Yes. And that would be a bit late to change your mind,
wouldn't
it, a second time around: For both of us. At our ages.'
  'Couldn't change my mind. Nothing will.'
  'We could be incompatible. Your word.'
  'Possibly. I doubt it. I don't feel incompatible. . . do you
with me: '
  'No. Oh no!'
  'After all. you are doing all the whimpering and sniffing and
I'm
the one who has the most reason to.'
  .Why:.
  'Well, you know how I feel about you but 1 don't know how you
feel about me.'
  'I don't know how you feel either. You haven't said.'
  'You wouldn't let me. I love you. Am in love with you. There
you
are. On a plate.'
  'I'm a children's psychologist. Queen Alexandra's.'
  'I am grateful for the information. Riveted. You are exactly
what
I need.'
  'I'm quite good at it.'
  'And you are as stubborn as a bloody mule. You won't commit,
will you, or say it: '
  She placed her hands on the table, fingers spread wide. palms
down. and noticed that they were instantly freckled by the
shifting
patterns of sun falling through the weary vine above. 'I've never
said it before in my life. . . not meaning it truthfully, I
mean.'
  'You must have said it to whatsisname: Nettles% At least once
in your life%'
  'Oh yes. To him, of course. of course I have. But that's not
quite
the same thing, is it: '
  'i'd rather hope not.'
  'No. You see, that's quite a different kind of loving. But when
I
have said it before to the, well. Flash Harrys. I only thought
that
I meant it at the time, but it didn't sound very good. Not
really.'
  'It probably wouldil't if you didn't mean it. But if you said
it now.
"I love you". here at this table in this macaws' cage. do you
think
it might have a different flavour: '
  'To you: '
  'Well of course to me, for God's sake.'
  'Don't know. I'm simply terrified of trying.'
  'Now look here. this is taking far too long. Be wildly
abandoned.
risk it, be reckless. If it sounds terrible. stale on your lips,
like kissing
dust, you know: then bad luck for me. we'll forget all about it
and
I'll try and catch the dancing waiter. Not shiny orange. In
cellophane. Real cheese. That a bargain: '
  She pushed aside her plate of wilting garden salad. folded her
arms on the table. 'I love you.' she said.
  He waited for a moment. letting the chattering and laughter
around them fill the silence. The paved floor at their feet was
barred
with sun-stripes. a lavender-rinsed toy poodle with a diamond
collar
scurried past.
  'How was it, then: ' he said.
  'How did it sound to you?'
  'I'm stunned. frankly.'
  'Good. I quite liked it myself. as a matter of fact,' she said.

  Irina Miratova's journeys into Town. as she called the urban
sprawl around her. were rare. For one thing she no longer had a
car of her own: that had long been given up after countless minor
accidents which proved. conclusively. that she really was not
capable of driving anything faster than a flock of geese. It
infuriated
her. for she always considered that the other driver was to
blame.
never herself. and put aside. with a hard physical slap, any
gentle
suggestion from Mouse that she was `too impetuous'.
  The taxi fare was prohibitive, for the distance was long. and
she
found it increasingly difficult to cadge lifts from her
neighbours. and
even harder to persuade them to bring her home: at a time
convenient to herself. And although she was usually very alert
to the
possibility that someone close by was about to make the trip,
they
somehow appeared to become aware of the fact that she would
request a lift. and made excuses. or simply left earlier than
they had
said. leaving her white with anger on the verandah. Another thing
which vexed her was that most of her old friends had died. were
dying. or had given up and moved away. and younger people. she
found. were not obliging.
  She was, therefore. to all intents and purposes marooned in her
wooden gothic pile on the cliffs, for with her arthritic back and
general heaviness she found it difficult to hurry. and impossible
to mount an ordinary bus. The thing which really infuriated her.
which she careFully concealed, or at least so she thought, was
the
fact that Mouse was still driving: a battered Volkswagen which
she
conducted with care and efficiency. sitting high on a sandbag on
the seat. just managing to see over the top of the steering
wheel.
In some extraordinary manner she got her feet to hit the
accelerator
and brake when either were needed.
  So irritated did this make Irina that she refused to make a
long
journey. contenting herself with a grudging trip to the local
shop-
ping centre where Mouse. with strictly controlled amounts of
money, was dispatched to do the local marketing. Nothing would
have induced Irina to enter such a place: she had once. and it
had
so bewildered her that she never went again. But her vodka was
of
prime importance. So the shopping had to be done: and Mouse was
sent to do it. Irina was certain that it was good for Mouse to
stir
herself a little from time to time. for she spent the major part
of her
life scuttling about the house like a black beetle, accomplishing
little
in the way of housework. less in cooking, but at least providing
a
semblance (Irina would accord it no more than that) of company
and life. which as the years drifted on she found essential. The
gathering memories were like shadows in the bleak house, and the
silences sometimes unbearable.
  There had once been days of glory; conversations of rare
distinction, laughter or violent discussion. But those had been
during the
time when Miratov was still alive; when the Manns, Lenya. Brecht,
Well, Auden and Huxley and many others had come to sit about
in the big room while Irina presided over her samovar. On one
magical occasion Einstein had come. and so enjoyed his
conversations that he came again. proposing irresistible. if
incomprehensible, sciences and laws, and calling Mouse. Mouse.
Indeed it was
he who gave her the name. For she sat always removed from the
direct flow of conversation, but clearly a part of the group. in
a
corner with some piece of hemming or stitching. her neat ankles
crossed. her head nodding and bobbing with agreement and delight
at the words which tumbled about her ears. But she seldom spoke:
it was not her position to do so. She listened carefully, in
raptures,
proud that she had done all the arrangements for the tea, and
that
it was her hands which had given the great samovar its lustre.
  House-Mouse. she was known as; and Mouse stuck.
  And Mouse could still drive. It was infuriating. Of course one
could have removed the wretched little car, and that would have
been that. But in many more ways than one. the car was essential.
In the deepest recesses of her heart Irina knew that Mouse was
also
essential. Death had reaped across her small field. there was
little
left. and less time. Vodka was the one great solace. being with
tiresome Mouse the only other she had left: the two barriers
which
held back despairing loneliness.
  On the occasions when she and Alexi Andreyev met. Mouse
would drive her down into Santa Monica. according to Alexi's
instructions: either they would meet at the entrance to the Pier.
four
concessions along on the left or the right. or at a seat on the
promenade where. among the roller-skating youth and the heavy
odour of 'pot' and pizzas. they could talk without restraint. She
didn't care for Andreyev. A common man. A man with all the
pretensions of good manners and grace. but with none of the
charm,
without which, she thought. neither was of the least use at all.
However. beggars could not be choosers, and he was exceptionally
polite. even on the occasions when she brought him little. for
as age
and lack of mobility slowed her down and invitations grew fewer
and fewer. she became less and less useful. The idle gossip. for
that
is how she chose to consider it. was beginning to fail; the wells
were
running dry.
  Now. today. he had made an exciting alteration in arrangements,
and they were to meet in Town. An adventure. A taxi. Which she
sincerely hoped that he would reimburse her for, for the pennies
were clinking in her purse.
  'I hope. Countess. you think that what I am wearing is
suitable%'
said Mouse suddenly. as they drove under the San Diego Freeway.
'It's so difficult to make up one's mind in a hurry.'
  'You have had all night to make up your mind! And as you
possess but two possible garments. apart from that loathsome
black
thing you rot around the house in. I should have thought it could
have been a very small matter of concern to you.'
  `Well, Countess. there is a difference between my blue and this
beige. The blue is more formal. for evening occasions perhaps:
'
  'When have you been to one of those. may I ask% Since nineteen-
forty-one: '
  'Well. I feel that this is less formal. more suited to a trip
to Town.'
  'You are not visiting St Petersburg.'
  'Ah no. . .' sighed Mouse. 'Not there. But the beige I have
chosen
is best, I feel.'
  Irina grunted, eased her back. placed both hands fiat on the
silver
knob of her walking-cane. 'As you will be spending most of your
time in some hideous supermarket. I can't see why you make the
least fuss. You are an anonymous creature. quite lacking in any
individual characteristics. Beige is the same: it is a
forgettable
colour. It would seem to me that no one will ever know that you
are there. and should you fall to the floor in a fit they would
step
over you. Altogether anonymous.'
  'My hat.' said Mouse undaunted. 'My hat is new.'
  Irina looked at her with pain-filled grey eyes. 'New: '
  `Well. almost. Do you notice something different% Oh, I pray
that
you do!'
  'I have known the hat for more than twenty years. what is new:
'
  'This.' said Mouse. touching a grey net bow stitched to the
brim.
'This bow. I made it last night. From a scrap I found in the
work-
basket. and then, if you will notice, I put the feather in. A
feather
from a dove. We picked it up years ago. I kept it for luck. A
dove's
feather. It is stuck through the bow, you see: Now that's
different,
isn't it: '
  'Marginally. Not altogether different.'
  'But it perhaps gives the hat a little. . .' Mouse hunted about
for
a word to use that would satisfy her mistress. Last night the
word
'chic' had presented itself. but now she dismissed it quickly
before
the unblinking grey eyes. 'Style: ' She finally said anxiously.
'Do you
not think so. Countess: '
  Irina opened the big black handbag on her knees. found a folded
paper napkin, one of those left over from Christmas, and blew her
nose. 'If you think so. if you think so. Don't start to flirt
with the
man in the liquor store and drop my bottle. Remember!'
  'Oh!' cried Mouse with joy and smothered the sound with her
hand.
  The taxi. on Irina's instructions. stopped at the side entrance
of
Brentano's book store. and they alighted: she paid it off.
counting
each bill and coin with the greatest care. and started towards
the doors.
  'It is not at all like an hotel.' said Mouse.
  'It is not an hotel.' said Irina. 'I do not want people to know
that
I am going to an hotel.'
  Mouse looked about the wide boulevard. `No one is looking.'
  'How can you tell. pray: Telescopic lenses% Secret cameras in
windows. . . how are you so certain: I am. to all intents and
purposes, walking into Brentano's book store: if I walk through
the
length of the shop it will bring me directly into the lobby of
the hotel.
And no one will be the wiser. I'm not a fool.'
  'Indeed not! How clever you are, Countess.'
  'And you will meet me here in one hour. at this door. You may
have to wait. I don't know how long Andreyev will keep me.
Remember the lavatory paper. and remember that you must. on no
account. cross the road except at the traffic lights and then
only
when they light up and spell wn Lx!. do you remember all that:
'
  'I remember. wnl.x!'
  'And there will be change from the twenty-dollar bill which I
have given you. I ask you to remember that too.'
  Mouse watched her mistress make her way into the store. tapping
ahead with the silver-knobbed cane. and then she turned and
walked quickly to the nearest traffic lights, muttering wnr.x!
under
her breath. feeling exceptionally light-hearted in her almost new
hat with the net bow and the feather of a dove.
  Alexi Andreyev was standing at the newspaper rack in the drug-
store as Irina entered: he turned and came to her with a
welcoming
smile and a copy of The New York Times. 'Always on perfect time.
You can be relied upon for that. I trust that you are well and
in good
health: '
  'Do not put your trust in my health. I become older and older,
I have almost overstayed my welcome in the Good Saviour's taxing
world. '
  'That saddens me. Now, I am about to buy a package of candy
for Tatiana Ivanova. . . advise me: What does she prefer: There
are
all kinds here, as you may see.'
  'She cannot eat those. She has no teeth. Buy her a Mars Bar.
she
will melt it in a saucepan, and pour it over a measure of ice
cream.
Sometimes I know that she only sups it from the spoon. It is
disgusting. But if you wish to make a gesture. . '
  He had reserved a table at the far end of the cafe adjoining
the
drugstore. and ordered tea. 'I regret that it will be tea in
bags, but
I have no doubt that you are long accustomed to this vile
practice
. . you will have heard the good news, I assume?'
  `I have heard no good news for a long time.'
  'Then this will please you. The hostages. They are being flown
out of Iran to Algiers tonight. . . it is all over.'
  'Hah! A most important day for America. How convenient for the
new President. God is showing him that He is on his side.'
  `Little to do with God. I imagine. More to do with pennies.'
  `We must hope.' said Irina. `that they were not silver. Thirty
pieces. eh: '
  'An important day for America. A new President. and the release
of the hostages. The reasons why I had to send for you, and could
not come to Santa Monica as I normally do. I hope that the
journey
was not too exhausting: But I could not get away. So much to
listen
to. to watch, to note. It is useful to have one's finger on the
pulse
of a nation at such a time, even if California can hardly be
considered the nation entire. But one gets an incredible
reaction. One
hears. and notes. opinion. Very useful.'
  Irina opened the black bag. took from it a small bottle which
once
held two ounces of scent and now contained the same quantity of
vodka. Expertly. and without losing one precious drop. she poured
half of the liquid into her cup of milkless tea. replaced the
stopper
tightly. Andreyev made no comment. He had seen this operation
before.
  'I beg you not to apologize. I know that you have your. . .
work
. . . to do, and this has been a minor pleasure. I shall go and
look
at the yellow ribbons of welcome. I am vexed only that I have not
put up my own: but I was not certain.'
  'They are putting them in the trees along the boulevards. A
palm
tree with a yellow ribbon bow is the strangest of sights.'
  'And no one will notice.' said Irina. 'Except you. You. who
have
been looking and listening. The faithful watch-dog: '
  Andreyev looked about the crowded room. 'One does one's best.
Every tiny morsel can be of use. as I have told you so often.
Just one
little piece of apparently irrelevant conversation. one comment
remarked upon and noted. things which may have no political
meaning to you or to me, trivia we would perhaps say. but one
tiny
piece of trivia could fit into the greater puzzle and clarify a
picture
for those who, far away, are working hard to keep informed. We
watch-dogs as you call us with such humour. are vital: and we are
wide spread. '
  'I am surprised.' said Irina carefully. 'that you have chosen
such
a popular rendezvous. But I assume that you have perfect reason:
And faith in your judgement?'
  'perfect. We think it unlikely that the Pink Turtle Cafe has
any
"device". We could plan a Second Coming here and no one would
be any the wiser. the noise is far too high. and the CIA are
heavily
occupied in Washington and. probably. Algiers.'
  `The taxi fare was enormous.' said Irina suddenly.
  Andreyev removed the copy of The New York Times which concealed
the Mars Bars for Mouse and a small. silver-wrapped box.
which sat beside them. `I have added enough here to the normal
amount to cover the taxi handsomely.' he said. tapping the box
with
a nicotined finger.
  'You are most thoughtful,' said Irina. 'Good watch-dog.'
  'A cog.' said Andreyev. `Just as you are. No more, no less.'
  'A cog%' said Irina.
  'We are not important. you and I.' He poured himself another
cup
  of hot water. swirled the sodden tea-bag around, pressed it
with a
  spoon to release flavour. `Cogs. And when a cog wears out, it
is of
  course replaced. And must be.' He suddenly smiled at her.
tapped
i the silver-papered box once more.
  Irina understood what he meant perfectly well. She was wearing

out.  In the early weeks of America's entry into the war she had
been
convinced. by subtle, coaxing tongues. that as a Russian by
birth.
although now an American citizen. it was her patriotic duty to
do
all that she could to assist her native country in its desperate
fight
against Nazism. To this she, at first reluctantly, and then with
growing fervour, agreed. Russian she was: and. after all, both
countries were now Allies in a common cause.
  Her popularity, wit, the elegance and erudition of her Sunday
snlons were, it was thought, just the weapons needed. All that
she
would be required to do was collect any little bits of gossip.
conversation, opinions. comments made and sympathies. or even the
lack
of them. expressed, by people in the mainstream group. of which
she
was part.
  She was gregarious; a perfect listener. an observant woman in
all
respects, and the effort of her patriotic duty was borne lightly
on her
shoulders. No one could possibly have known; no one did.
  So she collected up bits and pieces, noted them down carefully.
dates. names and provenance. and once a month would be bidden.
by telephone, to meet a messenger, as they were called. at a
given
rendezvous where she would hand over her little packet for the
common good.
  It never occurred to her that she might cause anyone harm;
except. of course. the Germans. or the pro-Germans in America.
and
there were a fair number of these. she knew only too well;
equally
she was perfectly certain that when the war was over and won. her
duties would end.
  But they did not. Irina found to her surprise that she was too
far
in to back out; she was also broke to all intents and purposes.
Miratov had died suddenly and. she thought, inconsiderately,
leaving his modest but fine collection of paintings to his
adopted
land. and a small settlement and the house to his wife. Which
infuriated her: for she had long had her eyes on the paintings.
and
had thought that when the time came she could manage to exist
perfectly well by selling off one or two. There was a Poussin of
great
beauty. a greatly admired Ribera, and a Ruysdael which. on its
own.
could have settled all debts, made sound the house, or. which was
far more attractive. allowed her to live in great comfort in San
Francisco. . . for she felt that Los Angeles was now becoming
shabby
and vulgar. and the house would very shortly slide down the
cliff.
It was typical of Miratov to redraw his will without her
knowledge.
As she wretchedly watched these works of infinite beauty, not to
say value, being crated and shipped off to a grateful
Metropolitan
Museum in New York. she knew that she would have to continue
with her war work in peace-time. and for a fee. This was agreed
instantly, for the quality of her gossip-gathering had been high.
and
the information often revealed in the irrelevant comments she had
passed on had been invaluable.
  She could never be certain, nor was she ever told at any point.
if she had actually contributed anything which would have proved
to be the 'one tiny piece' missing in the great jigsaw puzzle of
International Diplomacy, but she felt reassured that her work.
humble as it was. must have borne some kind of fruit. for each
month the little silver-paper wrapped box of bon-bons contained,
beneath the glossy sweets. two hundred very acceptable dollars.
  She worked well, quietly, dutifully, and then, almost
imperceptibly. the pattern of things began to change around her.
She
grew older, became less mobile. Her salons had long since ended.
for
her cast of players either returned to Europe at the end of the
war
or went to New York, her fields became harder to glean from.
there
were fewer invitations. new people moved into the city. new faces
were in charge of old businesses. no longer was her company much
sought for concerts and first nights. and she rapidly discovered
that
the parties. which had always supplied so much of her material,
had
almost completely altered in tone and style, and that she was no
longer invited. For no other reason than that the hosts were new-
comers, and had never heard of Countess Miratova. There were few
of the old crowd left, and they had given up parties for home
movies.
One couldn't pick up much at a first screening: no one spoke.
except
to make some comment. kind or unkind, on the current film
showing. And she usually dozed off anyway.
  However, one of her old cronies remained true, and still held
gigantic brunches or buffet suppers. to welcome the latest
arrivals
in town.
  Peter Clivden had arrived in Hollywood in the very early
thirties.
after one staggering success on the London stage to which he
never
returned. His house was known locally as Ye Old Curiosity Shoppe.
although whether this referred to the owner and his friends. or
simply to the junk he had amassed over the years. it was
difficult
to know. Every evening he lowered his Union jack: each morning
it rose into the smoggy air of Bel Air where he lived in some
style
with an ex-truck driver for a lover and three aproned crones as
his
maids. He bred Pekinese dogs, played the piano by ear. Coward,
Novello, Ellis. and worked only rarely; for the clipped accent
which
he had diligently cultivated since he had left his family home
in
Pudsey, was no longer in demand. and his agc was, frankly,
placing
him in a difficult category. However, he had saved prudently.
invested wisely, and was still able to hold his brunches and
suppers
in the house which he had built in 1933. which was closely
modelled. outside anyway. on Pauline Borghese's villa in Rome.
  It was here. amidst the splendours of early thirties-modern
furniture and some extremely suspect Utrillos, that Irina met
Alice and
Hugo Arlington at a brunch given in their honour and to welcome
them to California. She latched on to this glittering pair
shamelessly:
the Arlingtons were young and attractive. were looking for a
house
to rent for at least a year. they were determined to have the
greatest
fun: they needed help in a hundred ways. Irina took them both in
her capable hands and got to work. She was making a determined
bid to renew contacts.
  It was a short spell of happiness. Hugo died, the parties
stopped,
Alice moved away from the splendid house in Bel Air to the more
modest and unfashionable area west of town. Irina knew that she
no longer had the strength to fight on: the effort was too great.
she had used up most of her time. what was left she really had
no
need of.
  'Cogs.' repeated Andreyev slowly.
  Irina opened her black bag. removed a small packet which she
placed on the table before him. took her scent bottle and filled
her
cup with the remainder of the vodka. 'It has been a quiet month.
Christmas was not at all amusing. I don't know why. Age. I sup-
pose% One likes it less and less. So your packet is not very fat.
The
cog.' she said. raising the cup to her lips. inclining her head
politely
towards him, 'is wearing out. Just as you say. However. you may
find one or two things in there which, while not pearls of great
price.
have a certain curiosity value if nothing else. Sybil Witt. Boris
Kragujevac: such useful conversationalists.'
  She finished her vodka. replaced the cup in her saucer. reached
across the table and took the silver-wrapped box. 'If I may: '
  Andreyev nodded. 'Of course you may. Do not forget Ivanova's
Mars Bars. . .'
  'I will. I suppose. hear from the Bureau, sometime. . : '
  'As you know. that is not for me to say. I too, I must remind
you
again. am only a cog.'
  Irina stuffed the packages into her bag. snapped it shut. slung
it
over her arm. took up her stick. 'I suppose the next thing that
you will say is that we are both just a part oF the Greater
Machine: '
  Andreyev spread his hands wide. 'Why should I say that: When
you have already said it for me: '
  He slipped her small packet into his pocket and signalled for
their bill.

chapter 7.
Friday, 23 January

Jupiter didn't much like her sister Etty. She didn't like the way
that
Etty conducted her life generally: take a look. as she was now
doing.
at Etty's front yard and you'd know her for a slut.
  Desolation. indifference, dusty. junk-jammed.
  In a corner a bird-of paradise plant. tattered leaves drooping.
dead flowers spiked like twists of orange paper. In another the
hulk
of a car: wheelless. doors hanging wide, rusty. A pile of
worn-out
tyres spilled. a battered baby-carriage. Tin cans.
  In the middle of this the single-storey wooden house crouched
behind its sagging porch in shame. Paintless, the wood long
silvered
by years of exposure to wind, sun and sea. It had once been tight
and proud in a tended plot. contained by a neat picket fence,
shutters fresh painted, screens at the windows to keep out the
evening bugs. because Venice was built, they said, on swamp and
marshland which had been drained into little canals. or wide
ditches. when it was a place to come to retire. or to escape the
summer heat of the desert sprawl to the east. But that had been
many years ago. Maybe fifty. sixty even.
  Now it had almost crumbled into a shanty-town.
  Somewhere there were still traces of the Venice which had been:
the Venetian arches and colonnades survived. The pillars
cracking.
the iron supports bleeding rust into scaling concrete, walls
covered
in spray-bomb graffiti. On Ocean Front Walk. which as its name
suggested ran along the ocean edge, things were less derelict,
but
behind lay the black area, and no one much went there. The black
people had moved in as the whites had died off. or moved away.
It was lost land. Wasteland. There ain't much joy in this place.
thought Jupiter as she picked her way among the scattered cans
and
fallen tyres. Etty is just one slut. One big slob.
  She reached the porch. the four wooden steps up. creaking under
her weight.
  'Etty% This your sister Jupiter. You got a cold beer there: '
  Etty's voice was fiat with years of indifference. 'I got beer.
Right
here. All cold. Come and get it.'
  The front parlour was darkened by lines of washing which criss-
crossed the room from one corner to the other. stealing the light
from the window. Etty was ironing at a fold-up ironing board in
the
middle of the room. a pile of tumbled clothing on a chair at her
side.
She didn't look up when Jupiter came in.
  'You wash and iron all your given life.' said Jupiter, opening
a
can of Schlitz with a pull-ring.
  'Some people got to work,' said Etty.
  'Some people got too many kids.'
  'If you want a cup or a glass they's in the kitchen.'
  'Your kitchen is full of roaches.'
  'You a roach yourself, gal. don't I know it.' said Etty.
folding a
shirt.
  'I admit you iron pretty. Should do, so much practice.' Jupiter
went into the kitchen and found a glass.
  'This glass is so dirty I could grow corn in it,' she said.
  'Whyn't you try? This aint kids' stuff. It's grown-ups'. . .
see this
label% Fancy.' She held the folded shirt towards Jupiter who read
slowly.
  `St Michael. Made in England. What's so fancy: '
  'All his stuff is fancy. he got things from Paris. France,
Rome.
Italy, all over.' Etty put the folded shirt on a pile. picked up
another
from the heap beside her.
  'Who this he when he is home: ' said Jupiter.
  'And shirts. Real fancy names. He's that white fella. European,
lives on Whitecrest, friend of your widder lady. I do all his
laundry,
won't trust no one else. Very particular.'
  Jupiter moved a pile of shirts from the davenport and sat down.
'I'm getting old. Etty. Old is what I am. Carrying the burden the
Good Lord has given me.' She poured her beer and took a long
pull.
wiped her lips with the back of her hand. 'My widder woman is
right
there now. Iþ'hitecrest Avenue. With your fancy European. They
call him Dubrovnik, I don't know for real what name he has,
that's
all the kids call him. Dubrovnik.'
  'She there with him now: ' said Etty indifferently.
  'I always know when the kids go away for the night and she
tells
me to finish real smart so she can lock the house and get away.
He
don't never stay in the house. I seen the sheets 'cause I make
the
beds. He ain't never there. Never no smell of a man, I can tell.'
  Etty sprinkled water with tired fingers over the shirt on the
ironing board, rolled it neatly into a bundle. 'Never no smell
of a
man in this house neither,' she said. 'It gets lonesome.'
  `Don't know why he left you-all,' said Jupiter, and belched.
  'No work in Venice. It's hippies, junkies and crazy kids. He
said
he could do better down San Diego, a whole lot. He sends money
every week. never forgets. and the kids.'
  `Sends the kids money!' said Jupiter.
  'No. A card. Real pretty card, there was this battleship and
a blue
sky and it said. "Hi Folks! From San Diego!" In sparklers.'
  'That was nice.'
  'The kids was loon-happy.'
  'I didn't know Daniel could write". He write%'
  Etty switched off the iron. stood it on a brick to cool. 'His
name.
He does that okay. Not a message. You a real roach. Jupiter.'
  'Hey! You lost all your joy. you know that Etty: You don't
laugh
no more. that's sad. You had real pretty laughter. real sweet as
I
recall. . .'
  'Those days is gone,' said Etty. lifting the bundle of clothing
from
the chair and sitting down. 'They's gone. You lost your joy too.'
  Jupiter stared into her beer glass. 'Julie-Mae. I ain't cracked
a
smile since that day forward. I lost my joy. you right.'
  Etty rose, put the bundle of clothing on the ironing board,
opened
the ice box. got a can of beer. 'A sad time. That May-time. Julie
goes
wandering. then the Duke gets smashed up in his big white car.'
She
pulled the ring on the tin. it opened with a pop and a hiss.
  'They was real bad days. Real bad.' said Jupiter. 'More tears
shed
in those two days than the Good Lord could have used for his
Flood.'
  'Maybe, one day, Julie-Mae will just walk in. all happy, and
you won't scold, you be so glad to see her. But the Duke. . . ol'
Duke
Ellington, he won't never walk back into anyone's life.'
  'Is true. Is true. You call him Duke: '
  `Like Ellington, I never did get his name right. He liked just
we
called him Duke.'
  'Arlington,' said Jupiter. 'That's his name.'
  'She ever know, the widder, what he did down here%'
  Jupiter emptied the last of her beer into her glass. 'What he
do%
I mean except for black girls and a pinch of snow: I reckon she
knew
about the girls. I heard once. They had a shout and a hollering.
and
she knew about the snow. I guess. Ain't so difficult to see when
your
man has done a little sniffin'. She knew that. What else he do
then%'
  'Black meat. That's what he liked to call it. Having those
girls
down at Minty's. . . sometimes he was so gone on sniffing coke
they
was over him. three or four maybe. like bed-bugs. He liked that.
He
just crazy for that. Hoomiliation. That's all he wanted.
hoomiliation. And he paid lotsa dollars. . .'
  'Hoomiliation? You never said about that.' said Jupiter. `Why
he
want that% That's crazy stuff.'
  `He was crazy.' said Etty and poured the beer from her can into
her open mouth. head far back.
  'You just plain disgusting. Etty. You make me sick to my
stomach
you do that.'
  'Ain't no party manners in this house.'
  'So I see. What was all the hoomiliation for?'
  `He said he wanted to apologize to the black prolotariat for
the
wickedness of the white man. Do you believe!'
  'I didn't know.' said Jupiter. 'there was any other kind of
black
but prolotariat. '
  Etty shrugged. looked at her feet. 'That's what he said. I
don't
rightly know what he meant. Daniel told me, but I forget quick.
You
think these two feet of mine are getting bigger? 'Cause I don't
wear
no shoes% Think they spreading wider: Seems to me they are.'
  'You a real stupid nigger, Etty. Your ass spreading 'cause you
don't wear no pants% I'm goin' onto the porch. This room's too
dark
and gloomy. Come in the sun awhile. huh%'
  They sat together on the porch on the battered seats from the
wreck of the car.
  'You got to tread mighty careful on this floor. The wood is all
rotted away. One day someone will fall in a hole,' said Etty.
  'How you meet the Duke: ' said Jupiter. 'I don't recall
exactly.'
  'Mr Boris brought him one night to Minty's. God! That was a
evenin'. . .'
  `Who's Mr Boris: Your fancy shirt man%'
  'Is who. You call him different.'
  'Dubrovnik. I don't know no other name.'
  'He brought him down oh, couple of years gone now. One so fair,
the other so dark.'
  'Dubrovnik: '
  'If that's his name. He was tall as a mountain. First time he
ever
came in we all just stopped talking. Stared at him. This great
man,
eyes so blue they darted about like kingfishers, this curly brown
hair. He was something.'
  'You ain't never seen a kingfisher.'
  'I read about them once. I seen pictures. His eyes were like
so.
Skipping from one to the other of us so fast. Laughter there.
Polite.
"If you please" and "Thank you". can you believe% In Minty's!'
  A thin ginger cat uncurled on the sagging board floor, trod
lightly
down the four steps, stood with its back against the post. tail
erect,
quivering: ambled off into the junk-yard.
  'That damn old cat., said Etty. 'He sprays that stink like
every-
where.'
  Jupiter laughed softly. 'You just said ain't no smell oF a man
in
this house. Sure is now.'
  'Man. I said. Not male. Is a different stink anyways. This
Dubrovnik. right: he just moved into that warehouse loft up on
Whitecrest,
he didn't make no trouble. looked so good, so big, quiet.
smiling. He
talked funny, with an accent so we couldn't really understand
him.
but he meant kindly. Among all those punks. the gays in leather.
all Minty's gals. the juke-box bouncing. he was something
different.
Didn't make no difference he was white and we was mostly black.
He paid no attention to that.' Etty threw her empty can into a
dusty
bush over the porch rail.
  'You a slut. Etty Baker.'
  'Don't deny it.'
  'What he do. this Dubrovnik. at Minty's: '
  'He drank a lot. So we all did. so what: Sometimes he sat up
at
the bar and he just drank. or maybe sometimes. he wrote things
in
a little book. I don't know what.'
  'He makes movies. The widder said.'
  'I didn't never ask. The night he came in with this Duke
Ellington.
So funny the two of them. So goddamned different. The big black
one and the blond one. he a bit scared. I could see that. The
blond.
the Duke. licking his lips so hard. his eyes so wild. I knew he
was
sniffin'. He was sniffin' for black tail too. But I didn't know
that for
sure the first time. Minty liked him. She said he was real
class.' She
laughed. shook her head. 'She a dumb fool, that Minty.'
  'She get busted I recollect.'
  Etty sighed. got to her feet. looked down at them worriedly.
'She
got busted. Sure. Something had to give.' She started back into
the
house. `My feet sure is spreading. You want another beer, you
pressed for your time: '
  'I got time.' said Jupiter. 'Time for one more can. You bring
me
one: '
  `I bring you one.' said Etty. 'My bladder is pressed is the
trouble.
Be right back.'
  'I want to know about this hoomiliation some more. ' said
Jupiter.
  Etty stopped at the doorway, turned back. `That? Oh, it wasn't
so
much. just a gas: don't pay no attention. He was just high on
speed
or coke or whatever he took. I never saw anything, and right now.
Jupiter. I'm pressed.'
  'You scat then. otherwise we'll be sittin' in a lake.' said
Jupiter
and threw her can over the rail into the bushes. It wasn't her
house.
nor her yard. So what%
  There were some things, thought Etty, that you didn't tell
anyone: not even your own flesh and blood. Some things better
left
still. not raked about. She wandered into the kitchen and stood
a
moment by the cloth-covered table. hands to her face. Things best
left unsaid. She leant her weight against the table, felt the
hard edge
pressing across her thighs.
  Ain't nothing wrong with my bladder: it's just the remembering.
Sometimes people got to get away by theirselves, shake their
heads,
get rid of all the little bugs of memory. Jupiter talking about
Duke and Minty. Oh. sweet Lord! Minty. High yallar. and mean as
a
cornered rattler. Sometimes meaner even. Minty in that green
beaded shirt. the red wig. laughing, head thrown back. I recall
her
like that. Always will. I reckon. You want a packet of snow,
she's got
it; you want angel dust. she got that too. You want a boy or a
girl.
black or white. You want a fix: she can fix it. Anything for the
dollars. 'One day,' she said. `I'm goin' right out of this shitty
dump.
and when I go I'm goin' rich. I'm goin' to be richer than any
Madam
in the whole of America. Get myself the biggest Caddie you ever
saw,
a real smart apartment. real good address. people want to play
games: Okay. I'll give them games, at a price. I'll get a real
good
bunch of girls who'll work their butts off for me and I'll be
"Minty",
I'll be famous all over. I won't be dealing with trash. This
place is
an asshole and I want out. I want real classy things. People like
the
Duke, that's what I mean. that kind of client. Only I'll call
them "my
gentlemen". I'll be so rich, so famous they'll print my picture
in
swank magazines. maybe even I'll be put in songs. like Cole
Porter
did. People will know who I am and no one ain't goin' to get in
my
wig. No one. No way.'
  Etty leant away from the table. smoothed the rumpled cloth.
went
into the laundry-scattered room and got a couple of cans of beer.
  'You peein' all night in there, Etty? You faint or something:'
Jupiter called.
  `On my way. On my way. Ice cold beer.'
  Poor Minty. That's how she talked. So fine. So sure. So damned
certain. She never got it. All she got was twenty years for
pushing
dope and. what they call it: Moral Depravity. That's something
I
never could understand. Daniel told me, but I forget quick.
  Jupiter was sitting heavily on the battered car-seat, legs
apart. She
took the beer from Etty. pulled the ring. threw it into the yard
and
drank. 'Thought you'd gone clear to now heres,' she said. 'Sure
took
your time.'
  Etty sat down carefully, looking with interest at her feet. the
beer
can held aloft.
  'What you looking at,' said Jupiter. 'like you was holding a
lamp: '
  'I am sure as hell sure they's spreading. These two feet of
mine.
I reckon it's standing at that ironing board all day, maybe I
should sit: Get me a chair.' She tipped the beer into her open
mouth.
'Jupiter: You know why sex is so dirty: '
  'It is: ' said Jupiter. 'I didn't know. Depends on the way you
take
it, don't it: '
  'I reckon. I reckon sex and drugs is just about the most
important
things you can trade in. everyone in the whole wide world wants
them.'
  ' 'Cause why: '
  "Cause it makes people feel good. High. They have fun. And
maybe it's more fun if it ain't allowed. you know%'
  'I don't know. I turned off sex a while back. Sex is kids and
I got
enough. I lost one, my treasure, and I don't want no sex after
that.
That just closed me up.' Jupiter looked across at Etty suddenly.
'You
still have it: '
  Etty shrugged. drank again. wiped her lips with a spread of
fingers. 'I ain't turned off. Daniel has some cute notions when
he
comes back home. . . he always did. He full of fizz.' She looked
up
at Jupiter with a gleam of malice. for a second the habitual
indifference fell away. 'I'm younger. remember. than you.'
  'Roach.' said Jupiter. 'Younger and a slut. Always was, always
will be. You love your man? Or you just love the sex you have:
'
  'What's the difference? Sex can be real good for the soul.'
  'You remember that I am Chapel, Etty Baker, that ain't no part
of our teaching. I love the sweet Lord who will cherish me, amen.
So hold your hush about dirty things. You got no dignity.'
  'I don't need no dignity. What the hell I need dignity for in
this
dump: '
  'You have just let slide. Everything. You should come with me
to the Chapel, sing the praise of the Lord. feel His love. sing
loud for
Him. let Him reclaim you from your wicked ways. Sure you are
younger than I am. I know that. Last born you were. Know what
they call that: The last born% They call them runts. You a runt,
Etty.
the runt of the family, you is way past redemption. way past.'
  Etty nodded. finished her beer. threw the can into the bushes.
'I'm
way past redemption. but I sure as hell can iron a pretty collar.
and
I got a few other tricks I ain't forgotten.'
  Jupiter finished her drink, placed the glass and the can tidily
on
the porch plank floor beside her. 'I'm goin' now. I jest came for
the beer,' she said. 'I don't want no more. I'm goin' to the
Meeting. We'll
pray for you Etty. sure as I'm sitting beside you, we'll pray.
I'll ask
the Reverend Cheever to make a special announcement to pray for
the lost soul of Etty Baker, my sister. That's what I'll do.'
  'Sweet in you, Jupiter, just so sweet.'
  Jupiter eased herself off the car-seat. stood up, straightened
her
skirt. 'And there weren't no hoomiliations: Just a gas% That Duke
fella: '
  'A gas.' said Etty. 'Is all.'
  'You are tight closed as a clam.' Jupiter started down the four
wooden steps, at the bottom she turned. 'But we'll pray. Pray for
that lost, sweet soul of bygone days,' she said.
  Etty was looking at her feet. `Prayin' don't bring back no
sweet
soul From bygone days. They gone. they sure as hell are gone.
They
wasn't so much anyway. just small change. That's all,' she said.
  She watched Jupiter cross the cluttered yard. push her way
through the gap in the sagging fence where. once. there had been
a gate, and walk heavily away down the street.

  Big Bessie had him first. She was the beginning. She liked it
with
him. the things he wanted her to do. Wild! He was crazy, but he
knew the tricks. liked being taught some as well. But you had to
play
real careful with him. he was serious. Everything was for real.
No giggling. That made him so mad! No kindness. didn't want no
sweet words. no affection. 'Punish me.' he'd say in that English
voice so
strange. 'punish me for all the evils we done to your people.
Hate
me! Hate me!'
  Etty leant back against the worn fabric of the seat.
  Sometimes it was tough not to laugh at him, but hating wasn't
so hard to do at fifty bucks a throw. We all joined in, the boys
as
well as the girls. Screwed him from Alaska to Arkansas. Till he
was
near dead. spread out on that old billiard-table back of the bar.
naked as the day he was born. Sometimes the studs. the real tough
ones, damn near did him injury for life. and Bessie and Annie
gave
him thrashings so's he couldn't hardly walk, but Minty always
cooled it. just in time. She knew what he wanted all right, saw
he
got it. saw the dollar bills, treated him good.
  Etty laughed softly, shook her head, brushed her face with her
fingers. laughing through them. biting them gently as the
memories
came drifting back across the dusty yard. The Duke, crawling
naked
round the room, Annie sitting on his back like he was a mule.
whacking him hard, and him with a rope between his teeth, she
jerking it back and up, so he was bug-eyed with fear at the
punishment he wanted. And got. Hoomiliation. There was lots of
hoomiliation, Jupiter, you'd have died laughing.
  Only maybe you wouldn't.
  He tied up there. in that old room. like a sack of mail, the
girls
kickin' him. the studs pissin' on him. and he screaming for
mercy.
`Forgive me!' he's yelling. And Minty, standing there in the
shadow.
arms folded across that green shirt, the little beads glinting
in the
light, a cigarette. Smilin', smilin'. watching it didn't go too
far.
Ready to call Mr Boris to lug him home. 'cause Mr Boris never
came
down to those evenings. lie never was there. Just the Duke. Soon
as Mr Boris got the idea what was on with the Duke. he just
scrammed, he never once came into that old billiard room. Almost
no one knew it was there, way behind the bar. Just a empty room
with the seats all round and the table all torn-up, and the Duke
beggin' us to hate him some more.
  Funny times. she thought, looking down at her feet, memory
fading, the present coming into focus. Funny times. all over and
done with now. The hating and the forgiving. Funny what people
wants you to do to 'em. Funny the way they get their kicks.
Funny.
but you don't laugh. Kids'll do anything to get a fix. just any
old
thing you want long as you pay. And he paid good. I reckon
beating
the life out of a crazy loon 'cause he wants it that way's a lot
easier
than robbin' a store or hittin' some gal on the head and grabbin'
her purse. Safer. Stands to reason, and some of those kids. Big
Bessie, Annie, Joe Judas. Catface. an' a few of the others.
really got
a kick out of pissin'. and worse, on old Whitey. Vengeance and
revenge; wasn't no difference, they went high for that. Some
wheres
inside of themselves it's what they wanted. Years of hate they
let
go. Years they didn't even know they knew about. Him lying there,
helpless. pleading to be hated. And they did. Sure as hell is
frying,
they hated.
  But he was scarey too, as well as all the rest. Real creepy.
Time
he said to Minty, 'Minty,' he said. all low and sweet like. 'one
day
I'm goin' do something so bad they'll kill me, you see. They'll
stomp
me to death.'
  She got up stiffly, looked down once more at her feet. 'They's
spreading,' she said aloud. 'Seems to me that way.' She picked
up
Jupiter's glass, threw the can into the bushes. stood arms
akimbo.
looking into nowhere.
  He never did. We never saw him again, I recollect. No one
stomped him. He got minced up on the Freeway. They had to use
a hose to wash him out of the wreck.
  Funny.
  There was a tremble of beer in the bottom of Jupiter's glass,
she
swallowed it, shook the glass across the porch planks. Pissin'
on
Whitey. Well, one way of getting it out of your system, I reckon.
  The towel was too small. slimy with water. Alice rubbed her
hair
with it briskly. 'It's too small. This towel. And wet. Don't you
have
another one%'
  Dubrovnik was in the studio part of his loft. He heard her
voice
from the bathroom. lowered the sound on the record player. 'I
don't
hear you: What say: '
  'Too small. This towel.' Alice stood naked in the doorway of
the
bathroom. 'And wet. I can't dry myself. And my hair. . .'
  'Only one towel. The other is being washed.'
  'I suppose I should have had my bath first. Shower. I mean. You
are too large for this rag.'
  'Maybe. You are a lazy creature. It's been wet for days
anyway.'
  'How can I go to supper with hair like this? It'll never dry.'
  'You look. you know. like Ophelia! Maybe Ondine!'
  'No consolation.' She turned and went into the bathroom again.
He watched her as she walked, the small buttocks. high bones at
the hips. the slender back. vertebrae a line of buttons under her
skin.
  'But you are very beautiful. Even From the back.' he called.
  'Bugger off. I'm miserable.'
  'There is a dressing gown in the cupboard. I think.'
  She took the faded garment from a hook. saw a pair of jeans
hanging by a belt-loop. Looked at them for long seconds. Shrugged
herself into the dressing gown. came back into the studio. tying
the
stringy belt about her waist.
  Dubrovnik had dressed and was pulling on a sweater. 'You get
it:
Great. I put the heating up real high. Is better% Why you
miserable: '
  'That towel is disgusting.' She sat on the edge of his wide
bed.
'Those jeans.'
  'Jeans: '
  'In the cupboard. They are too small for you. . . not yours,
right%'
  `Oh shit.' he said. 'I'm very sorry. You find them: '
  'Under this.'
  'I don't wear it.'
  'Obviously. They're his. aren't they% Hugo's%'
  'I imagine. I think to myself I clear all that stufF away.
Sorry.'
  `Did he have much here, in your santuary%'
  'Not so much. A change of stuff just to go. . .'
  'To go off on his little trips. I know. He'd look pretty odd
in his
Turnbull and Asser shirts and all the rest.'
  'I don't follow. Who is. . .'
  She brushed the conversation to a stop with a gesture of her
hands. 'Leave it. Give me a scotch. will you?'
  He poured her drink. 'I'll go and take them away. For the
trash.
I am truly sorry.'
  'It doesn't matter. A sudden jolt of remembrance. Not your
fault.'
  In the cupboard he yanked the jeans off the hook. felt quickly
in
the pockets. found a small square of cardboard. A flashlight
Polaroid
of two coloured children, obscenely naked. He crushed it
instantly
in a strong hand. Felt through the other pockets. Two five-dollar
bills. some small change. He put the jeans in the basket of dirty
clothing for Etty Baker, went back into the studio stuffing the
crushed cardboard square into his trouser pocket.
  'You want ten dollars: I found ten dollars.'
  She shook her head, lay back in the deep settee. stared up at
the
rice-paper Japanese lantern hanging from the ceiling. 'I just
wish
that you had told me before.'
  He was pouring a drink, lowered the sound of the record player,
came across and sat beside her. 'Told you what%'
  'About all this. . . this trip. The Amazon, all that.'
  'But I did. I did.'
  'No. Only that it was an idea. not that it was a fact, that you
were
leaving. going, gone.'
  'Nothing was so sure. You know how long it takes. papers.
permits, everything. I only got news all is okay this morning.
Right: '
  'Taken me unawares, that's all. How long for% About%'
  He sat forward. knees apart, hands round his glass. 'I cannot
tell.
How can I tell: Is a long way. A big deal.'
  She took a sip from her drink. `Months: '
  He shrugged. a large movement from a large man. 'Is possible.
I cannot tell. I want to be there in the rains and in the dry.
that is
important.'
  `And when does it rain in this bloody place%'
  `About from July to December.'
  'If you are going to follow this Amazonian Autostrada. or what-
ever it is, you'll be a long, long time.'
  'It's called the Road of Bitterness. Is already two thousand
kilo-
metres long - so many people die making it. the forest comes back
all the time. They fight to get to Peru. but they lose.'
  'Why in the name of God is it worth going all that way to
photograph a losing battle: And you could be lost there too.
disease.
Indians. yellow fever. . . it's madness.'
  'It's very exciting. I will start to look for Fordlandia. . .
you know
this place: '
  'Why should I%'
  'Is built by the car man. Nineteen twenty-six. A big dream. The
rubber was the dream. Fordlandia is now jungle again. Nothing
remains.,
  'Then why bother: Why go:,
  Dubrovnik got up suddenly and started pacing. His usual
occupation when he was forced to think. 'You put me down. Alice.'
  'No. I don't. It's just a crazy idea.'
  'Maybe I like crazy ideas.'
  'Maybe you do.'
  'Is what I am. a man of visions, of crazy ideas! So was Darwin,
Michaelangelo. Vasco da Gama. . . all was crazy. . .'
  'Modesty is not your strongest point.'
  He turned suddenly and stood before her. legs astride. hands
by
his sides. 'And so you laugh a little at me% Idiot Dubrovnik: All
I
can do is cook for you and fuck you well. . . that's it% You say
so: '
  'Didn't say anything of the kind. And don't shout.'
  'I shout because you make me unhappy. Why do this% I am a
man. I want to move. I want the adventure. to see things new, to
try
things new. I have this fantastic idea for the Road of Bitterness
and
you laugh.'
  'I haven't laughed once. I'm far too wretched for that. What's
going to happen to me: Have you thought of that: What do I do%
Start off on my road: And where will I go: Can you tell me: '
  The anger left him, he came and sat beside her gently. took one
hand and placed it on his knee. leant across and kissed her on
the
lips. 'Alice, oh Alice! I love you. But you know, this you always
know, it cannot be for always. we cannot be always together. I
have
children, and I love them. I have also a wife I do not love. but
is
Catholic, and she will never. not ever. let me go. This. always,
Alice,
we have known. . . one day I must go back. It will be my duty and
my decision to do so. but before that I must fulfil myself as a
man
in my work. You understand me: `
  'You have always said that here. Los Angeles, America, whatever
you like. was the only place for your creative work. You told me
this,
you were so certain.'
  'I was wrong. They were very nice. sure. Pat me on the back.
"Great job. kid". all that kind of thing, but they don't want my
kind
of movie. . . I am only another foreigner trying to gate-crash.
. . you
say this: '
  'You can.'
  'Well I do. They do not understand my work. or how I work. or
þþhat I want to work at. . . it is too good for them. They want
entertainment for TV, to sell things. not documentaries.'
  all night Airport was a success. wasn't it: You got an award
for
The Big Divide. . . it's only a matter of patience, of waiting.'
  'I waited too long already. Airport was about Jews fleeing
Russia,
Difficle was about Germans who could not flee Germany. . . art
stuff.
No one wants to see them. Even on television. They don't sell
Brand
A or Brand B.'
  'So what is the point of trailing thousands of miles to make
a film
in Brazil about a town that no longer exists! Who the hell wants
to see that: '
  Dubrovnik sat back in his corner. his glass held on his knee.
'I
do,' he said.
  Alice ran her hands through her hair. `I'm still damp. . . have
you
  got anything I could rub it dry with: A teacloth, anything.'
  'I give you a shirt, that okay: '
  'One of Hugo's: '
  Dubrovnik was opening drawers in a chest across the studio. 'I
  am sorry for the jeans. I said so. I forgot.' He found a cotton
tee-shirt
  and came towards her. 'You can use this. It is clean.'
  `Did Hugo leave anything else behind him here: Books. papers.
anything: '
  'No. Nothing. He never came with things like that. He had just
a few bits of old clothing to. . .'
  'I know. You told me.' She started rubbing her head with the
tee-
shirt vigorously. 'Odd thing is,' she said. coming up for air and
parting, pressing. the heavy hair about her head away from her
face. 'Odd thing is that yesterday, I can't think why, I suddenly
had
a thought and went to have a look at the mass of papers and
things
I've collected. His journals. notes. rough drafts for things. two
unpublished manuscripts. A room of stuff.' She threw the
tee-shirt
on to a table. fluffed the hair around her head with busy
fingers.
  'And what%' said Dubrovnik. pouring himself another scotch.
  'Well. it's silly I suppose. But everything is there, as far
as I can
see. except for his journal of 19 79.'
  'Is not here, Alice. I would know for sure.'
  'And all the months up until the day he died in May '80 are
missing from that journal. 1980 is half empty. Dead. Ripped out.
Gone.'
  'Why: Why he tear out all those pages? Leave half a book?'
  'I don't know why. I wondered if you did. That's all.' She got
up.
untied the belt of the dressing gown. 'I'm dry now, almost. I'll
go
and try to brush a bit of life into my hair. I can't brush any
life
into me. not this evening.' She paused at the door to the small
bedroom where she had left her clothes. 'Alice-sit-by-the-fire.
That's
me. . . God! What a mess I've made of my life. What time are we
due at Sybil's. seven thirty%'
  Dubrovnik was standing in the centre of the studio, dwarfed by
beams and timbers. the large bed. a giant poster by Capiello of
a
dancing Mistinguett. He had his head down. the glass pressed
against his lips.
  'Yah. Yah. We have time,' he said.
  Alice laughed. shook her head. 'Not much, my dear, not much.
God damn Brazil.'
  'You want me to kill the music?' shouted the White Rat.
  Jonathan leant forward, cupping his ear with one hand. 'What?'
  'You want me to kill the music%' said the White Rat, turning
the
car radio down to a whisper.
  'Ah. Well, yes. If you don't mind. It makes it a little easier
to talk
back here. '
  'I don't mind. Just that some people really love music. Stevie
Wonder. Great artist. Great musician. You know Stevie Wonder,
lady: ' He was looking at Lea in his driving mirror.
  'Yes. Yes I do. But it was a bit loud this time, Wayne. Thank
you.'
  'You're welcome. Music's company. But I guess with you two in
the car I already got that, right: Cars is lonesome sometimes.
Drivin', drivin'. . .'
  'They must be,' said Jonathan. 'I give you the address we're
going
to:'
  The White Rat looked at the empty seat beside him, picked up
a
small book. 'I looked it up in this city plan. Off Sunset, north,
up
Benedict Canyon. seventh on the left. Right%'
  'Superb.'
  'Oh hell. It wasn't so much.'
  'It's marvellous. Tropicana Drive. Is north of Sunset what you
call
okay: '
  'It's okay. South's better. South always is here. But you just
made
Beverly Hills. Tropicana Drive is exactly on the border of the
city
limit. Know that: '
  'So we are within the pale: ' said Lea.
  Wayne reflected in silence for some moments. 'What the hell is
that: '
  'I mean. it's a good neighbourhood: Chic. Classy%'
  'Oh sure. Classy. Just. Right on the city limit though. Whoever
you're goin' to have a gig with just about made it right. mixed
neighbourhood of course. Lots of Jews. But definitely no blacks.
I
reckon you could say it was Caucasian - and lots of Jews got
theirselves a new name with the nose job.'
  'And beyond that:' said Jonathan. 'Beyond the city limits.
Desert: '
  The White Rat snorted. 'Sheet. man! Desert! Is Bel Air beyond.
Beautiful. gracious-living Bel Air. Now that is real class. I
mean that
is just the most in this area. You got a house in Bel Air you is
either
an Arab prince or you grabbed yourself a load. no matter which
way. It's lotsa, lotsa money, Bel Air. You've arrived!'
  'Very tribal.' said Lea. `Everyone lives in ghettos here.'
  'Hey! They ain't all jews!' said the White Rat. 'Some is quite
normal people. Just ordinary. Like me.'
  'And where do you live, Wayne: I never asked.' said Jonathan.
'With your sister: '
  'No. . . I go to my sister when you go west. . . I got a pad
in Mar
Vista District and that ain't class. That is not one little bit
classy.
Sheet no! But the woman I rent from don't mind my hours. She
works in some club nights. Suits her.'
  He swung off Sunset into Benedict Canyon. leaving the blaze and
shimmer of neon and the glittering traffic. The canyon wound up
gently; few lights. houses dim in the dusky night. no one
walking.
He started counting aloud. 'Fifth and sixth turning. . . should
be the
next. You said seven along on the left: '
  'I did. Tropicana Drive.'
  'Is here.' said the White Rat and swung into a suburban street
lined with tall palms. 'Somewheres here. Which one you want. you
reckon: The Old Virginian homestead. the Arabian Nights. or the
Settlers' Cabin: All is real classy. arn't They.'
  The Arabian Nights house was floodlit.
  'I think it's that. with all the lights.' said Jonathan. 'Can
you see
the number: '
  'Call it out for me. I got no head for figures, notes yes,
sharps and
flats, not figures. 'cept on a dollar bill.'
  'bi4i. . . Arabian Nights it is. Dear God!.
  'Well anyways.' said the White Kat, 'it ain't in no
bears-cage.'
  Sybil Witt's house might have been lifted. with the small area
of
land on which it stood. intact from North Africa. White, square,
fiat
roofed. a slight dome on top like a flattened breast. slender
moorish
arches. mosaic panels, blue tiles. blue shutters. a blue door.
  In the centre of the sandy yard, among artistically arranged
rocks, cacti and stubby palms. a ceramic fountain dribbled into
a
circular tiled basin afloat with white and pink plastic
waterlilies.
The entire yard was brilliantly floodlit. illuminating the two
houses
which stood, four arms' length apart from it. on either side. On
the
left a tall colonial mansion; portico, pillars. manicured lawn,
shabby
magnolia supported by wires to keep it erect. On the other side
a
log-cabin in a shroud of shrubs, dominated by two valiant. dying
spruce.
  'The Ideal Homes Exhibition: ' said Lea.
  'Want me back to collect you eleven thirty, okay%' said the
White
Rat.
  `That's right, Wayne. We'll be on time. I promise.'
  The White Rat shrugged. `With all this light I don't reckon on
gettin' mugged. I gotta jingle I'm workin' on, I'll be happy.
Have
a nice time.' He started to open his door, then shut it, turned
in his
seat. one arm along the back of the seat beside him.
  'Hey! I just realized. This is our last trip out. You know
that?'
  'I know that Wayne. You gave me the happy news.'
  'It's terrible. I liked drivin' you. You talk to me so nice.
Real nice.
Call me Wayne. Sheet. man! No one ever calls me that. No one says
nothing to me really. Not thank you or goodbye. You know. when
they told me at the office this morning you was off the list as
from
this job tonight. I felt real depressed. I really did.'
  'I did too. Wayne. I was a bit surprised myself.'
  'And for me to have to tell you the news, I mean that's sick.
Whyn't Cristal do it% Why leave it so damned impersonal?'
  'I don't know. . . but we must get to dinner. we'll be late.'
  The White Rat opened his door and started to help Lea from the
car. 'A real schmucky deal. Real low. tacky deal. Okay. See you
around eleven thirty. have a nice time. and don't worry about me
if the party's wild. . . I got my jingle to keep me occupied.'
  'A real schmucky deal,' said Jonathan as they walked up the
pebbled path between fat cacti and spiky palms.
  Lea slid her arm through his. her head rested for an instant
on
his soulder. 'Schmucky.' she said. 'Like the rest of this place.'
  When the White Rat had told him that he had been 'struck off
the list as from the end of tonight's job'. Jonathan, white with
anger, had gone up to his bran-mash room and called Cristal
Productions.
  A few discreet purrs. not more than three, a light. cheerful.
over-
bright, female voice.
  'Cristal Productions Incorporated. good morning! May I help
you: '
  `This is Jonathan Pool. May I speak to Mr Shapiro, please: '
  `I will connect you with Mr Shapiro's secretary. Please hold.'
  A clicking. a hiss. another female voice. impersonal.
irritated.
'Who is this: To whom am I speaking%'
  'Jonathan Pool, might I speak to Mr Shapiro. It's important.`
  A pause. A rustling. a sudden dull thump somewhere at the end
of the line. 'Jonathan Pool.` the impersonal voice repeated
distinctly.
`Mr Shapiro is in conference right now and cannot be disturbed.
I'm
sorry.' The tenor of the voice suggested that the conversation
was
about to be terminated instantly.
  Jonathan spoke quickly. 'That is Mr Shapiro's secretary?'
  `This is she.' Irritation growing.
  ` Ellen % '
  A pause. A hint of unease crept into the impersonal voice,
almost
giving it life. `This is Ellen Luftgarten. I am Mr Shapiro's
secretary
and I've told you already that he is in conference. . .'
  'Ellen dear.' said Jonathan, 'I really don't think that I need
to
speak with Mr Shapiro. I am perfectly certain that you can help
me:
I am only sorry that I am reduced to speaking to you through the
medium of a telephone. And not through a bowl of orange cotton
marigolds. '
  'I don't understand what you say. Who is this: Will you repeat
that: What is it you want to know?'
  'I understand from my driver. who has been hired by your firm,
that I am no longer "on the list" as from this evening, Friday.
My
car is being withdrawn. Is this correct: '
  'It is correct.'
  'But the car was available to me under my contractual rights
for
the duration of my stay in Los Angeles. that ends on Sunday
night.
Today is only Friday. Can you give me a reason why I have had two
days cancelled arbitrarily: '
  A thread of hysteria in the now staccato voice. `I can not. I
have
orders that a car will be made available to you, to take you to
the airport on Sunday evening, at eight p.m. precisely at your
hotel for
the ten o'clock flight. I do not have any other orders.'
  'I take it then that Mr Shapiro will have no further need of
my
services: Is that correct?'
  'Correct.'
  'He doesn't want to see me again before Sunday%'
  'Mr Pool.' said the voice. which had suddenly gained courage
and
was reading at dictation speed, or as if it had suffered a mild
stroke,
'Mr Shapiro does not want to see you again. Ever.'
  'Well. that's pretty clear.'
  'I hope so. and now goodbye. . .'
  'There is one thing. Ellen my angel, do you have any idea of
what
has happened to my script of The Familiars?'
  'I do not. I'm sorry. I have no recollection of anything which
we
hold as The Familiars.'
  `Voodoo Denth: That anything you can recognize%'
  The voice surged up with confidence. `Voodoo Death. Yes. We do
recall such a subject. The project has been dropped. We have no
plans at Cristal Productions for the production of Voodoo Death,
now
or in the coming future.'
  `You are very kind.'
  'You're welcome, and now. . .'
  He cut in quickly. 'Ellen. sweet child. if I thought that Mr
Shapiro
could write anything other than a reluctant cheque. I would say
that he was right there beside you scribbling this dialogue just
a few
inches from your pretty little hatchet face, but since I am
certain
that he could not put pen to paper I must assume. mustn't I? that
you are the one who is giving me the thumbs-down and making
me, in consequence. the happiest man in all Los Angeles. Apart
from
that hellish tautology just now, you'd make a pretty good script-
writer yourself. Just ponder on that thought. and give him my
warmest thanks for what must be your very wise decision. And tell
him, in passing. that he will be hearing from my agents and from
my lawyers. most determined people. and have a very, very. nice
day. Ellen dear. You've got a great future in the CIA. Unless.
of
course. you are the CIA%'
  He hung up. Stared at the bran-mash fabric walls of his room.
at
the dead television set. at the bowl of red apples. 'Compliments
of the Management', which were already beginning to wrinkle like
old
women's elbows. and then he started to laugh.
  He was still laughing when he reached the over-ornate lobby
below where the White Rat. in his orange suit and some degree of
anxiety. was sitting on the extreme edge of a crimson Knole
settee.
  Ellen Luftgarten replaced her receiver with a crash of fury in
her
office at Cristal Productions, her brow lightly beaded with a
mist of
sweat. She laid a consoling. if unsteady, hand on the white-
knuckled fist of Mr Andy Shapiro who teetered, dangerously. at
the
side of her desk.
  'That man is a nut!' she said in a conspiratorial voice. 'He
is
completely crazy! More. he is, well. Mr Shapiro. I feel certain
he is
a psychopath! He talked real dirty to me. Innuendo! What is this
with
the CIA: What is he after: How did he know that my name was
Ellen!' Her voice had risen several octaves. `Tell me that! How
did
he know my name% My own, private. personal, name! Mr Shapiro!'
Her voice came down the scale from 'panic' and stayed steady at
'concern'. 'Mr Shapiro! Are you all right: What is it? You look
so
wild! Are you ill% Mr Shapiro. . .'
  Mr Shapiro slowly slumped to his knees, his head fell a little
to
one side. rested on his shoulder, and then with infinite grace
he slid
beneath her desk, eyes staring. a frill of foamy bubbles round
his ashen lips.
  'Oh shit!' said Ellen I forgotten. 'He's croaked.'

  In the white-plastered hall. moorish bird-cages hanging from
the ceiling like a host of stalactites, Sybil Witt embraced
Jonathan and
Lea with warmth.
  'Now. listen. just listen.' she said. 'Do not think for one
moment
that you will be eating cous-cous cross-legged on the floor. nor
will
you be required to wrench apart a roasted sheep with your bare
hands, nor indeed.' she said, slipping her arms through theirs
and
leading them under a high tiled archway towards an enormous
white room. 'will you be offered a candy jar of nuts. I'm off the
nuts
for a while. Monotony got hold of the game, quite apart from the
fact that no one ever bothered to tell me that if nuts is all you
are
going to eat you gotta go around with a Waterpick strapped to
your
back. Whatever this decor may give you to believe. you will eat
quite normally. at a table, with knives and forks. I hope. and
the champagne is chilling as I speak. . . Juan!' she yelled at
a closed white
door across the vast space of the room. 'Bring the vino. will
you: '
  She stood before them. trim in a white shirt, blue jeans,
tightly
curled chestnut hair. her brown face unmade up. freckled. amused.
'Have I changed since we met at Alice's last Monday% Tell me now.
before the rest arrive. I have to know. Gospel truth. please.'
  'Alarmingly.' said Jonathan.
  'Alarmingly! Holy cow. What's so alarming!'
  'No. no, I meant unrecognizably.'
  'Then for God's sake say what you mean. You scared me half to
death.'
  'I do have to confess. though, that I rather miss the hedgehog
look.'
  'Still there. Under this. But it gets hellish depressing in the
mornings when you look at yourself and say, "Sybil Witt. you have
gone
too far, and you are getting old. and you've got to use your
Water-
pick.' You just give in, pull on a wig, and smile at the world.
"Smile
and the whole world loves you. cry and you cry alone''. . . know
that
old thing: '
  'I know it,' said Lea. `It's true.'
  'Sure as hell is. honey. And your Aunt Sybil knows too. . . now
listen. Comment! Say something about this palazzo. . . get that
out
of your system. It is not mine. I have absolutely nothing to do
with
it apart from paying the yearly rent to an elderly gentleman who
is living in Athens with a soldier who's into tutus. . . It's the
casbah.
right: Hedy Lamarr. Boyer and Bergman. . . and it is all
genuine.'
  Lea looked about the room: white on white. scattered rugs on
a
blue-tiled floor, a giant half-circular settee, a fire blazing,
beaten-
brass tables. bare white walls except for one perfect Tabriz
carpet.
and several bird-cages here and there which, to her relief.
contained
nothing more distressing than pairs of paper doves.
  'Well. . .' said Lea. 'It's a bit amazing. Rather fine in its
way.'
  'In its way, I give you that. You are so British! The tact
over-
whelms.' said Sybil. handing them both a glass of champagne from
an offered tray held by an aged Mexican in a white jacket with
a
cigarette stub stuck to his lower lip. 'Oh Juan! Hell take it,
darling!
That stub has been there since lunchtime. . .'
  He shrugged. smiled. set the tray on a brass table.
  'If he doesn't smoke serving the drink, he'll leave the butt
in some
  unremembered place and we all go up in flames. He's done it
twice
  already. Listen, if you want vodka, gin, whisky, anything. .
. the
  regular booze, just say. You don't have to have this.'
  'Champagne,' said Lea settling into one of the enormous white
  chairs, ' to celebrate. '
  'Celebrate% Celebrate what: '
  'I got the sack this morning,' said Jonathan. 'Cristal
Productions.
  They dropped my project.'
  Sybil took a handful of peanuts from a dish. 'Ain't the only
thing
that dropped at Cristal today. honey.'
  'What else did: '
  `Andy Shapiro did. Dead.'
  Jonathan choked.
  `Lea! Hit him! On the back! No! Real hard. . . oh God! I
thought
  you'd know. . . it was on the radio. I'm so sorry. Really.'
  Jonathan wiped his eyes and mouth, recovered himself. brushed
  his Dom Perignon-soaked knees. 'I think I spewed some of your
wine
  on the floor. Sorry.'
  'It's tiled. No problem. You all right%'
  'Overcome. I'm probably the killer! Oh God! What a thought.
Lea!'
  'You think: ' said Sybil refilling his glass. 'Well if you are.
you have
done this stinkin' town a service. He was a really not-nice
fellow.
You know: The old school. Hire and fire. Greedy. mean. out of
touch.'
  'I met him.'
  `You know something? Something terrible. He had a younger
brother lived here. went to live in Vienna. had four kids. a nice
job.
the Nazis came. He applied to come back to the USA. had relatives
here. Could be supported, you know the deal. Remember? Andy
Shapiro was the relative. He refused to sign the affidavit. He
said
how could he be certain his brother could support himself ?'
  `And: ' said Lea.
  'Aw Lea. sweet. come on. There wasn't any "and". Finish.
finito,
obliViOn.'
  'Oh God!' said Lea. 'And his wife was so proud, Jonathan told
me.
of someone who sent food parcels to what she called "Auswich".
I couldn't believe it.'
  'Hard to,' said Sybil. 'You imagine them handing everyone a tin
of cling-peaches on the way to the gas chambers% That's this
town.
Too far away. No comprehension of what happens anywhere but
in this place. Anyway. you lost the boss.'
  'It doesn't worry me.' said Jonathan. 'It really doesn't. I
just hope
that his secretary Ellen goes the same road, and soonest. Oh! God
Almighty! Los Angeles has started to brush off on me, and I've
only
been here a week.'
  'It has a habit of doing that.' said Sybil. 'It either brushes
off on
you. or it brushes you off. Either way is dangerous to your
health
and sanity. But he was on the way out anyway. Shapiro, he was
out of touch. lost. The new mafia have taken over the movies now.
It's not movies any more, television. The bosses are younger,
tougher. concerned with the ratings. they don't have heads like
people; they have computers. Everything is time-slotted, no one
cares about anything except how many aspirin they sell. or auto-
mobiles. or how much shampoo.' She got up and started towards
the wide arch to meet Alice and Dubrovnik who were coming across
the huge room. 'It's Detergent Entertainment. Alice! Dubrovnik!
The party starts. . . how great you could come.'
  'Terrible traffic.' said Alice. `We are a bit late.'
  'Not a second late. Champagne? Or a regular drink. it's all
here?
We are celebrating, Jonathan just got his project dropped by
Cristal
Productions!'
  'We just heard. on the car radio. He's bad. Shapiro: Is right?'
said
Dubrovnik.
  'Is right,' said Jonathan.
  'Oh my dear.' said Alice, sitting on the wide arm of his chair.
`How
bloody for you. Your first big deal. . .'
  'I'm happy as hell.'
  Alice took a glass of champagne as Dubrovnik moved towards the
fire.
  'You know.' he said. 'is real clammy outside. Is raining a
little.'
He rubbed his hands together briskly. stretched an arm behind him
to the heat. 'Real cold. You get like in the song. . . "Hate
California.
it's cold and it's damp". you know:' He dropped the crushed
Polaroid into the heart of the fire as Sybil crossed to him with
bowls
in her hands.
  'Carrot sticks. . . or hot cookies? Real hot. Mexican. . . and
there is an avocado dip right there on the table. Alice! How do
you do it?
You look good enough to eat, I mean. but really! Dubrovnik. you
are monopolizing the fire, you want a carrot stick? No: A hot
cookie%'
  `Well, I suppose that if they have dropped the project. there's
no
reason for you to hang around. is there?' said Alice.
  'No. Not really. It hasn't quite hit home yet. Almost.'
  She used her finger as a swizzle stick to remove the bubbles
in her
wine. 'Why don't you stay on a little then% Or have you got to
get
back to Europe?'
  'No. Not really. Haven't thought.'
  Dubrovnik wandered across to the Tabriz carpet. `You know.
Sybil% This is good. Valuable.'
  'Full of moths.' said Sybil. 'You like it: '
  'It's beautiful.'
  'Wish I could give it to you. If it was mine I would.'
  'The colours are so soft.'
  'Faded.'
  'In centuries of sunlight. I think.'
  'I think you really ought to make a trip now that you're here.
It's
dotty to come all the way to California and just see Wilshire
Boulevard: there is more to it than that,' said Alice.
  'I'm staying on a little. I'm not going back on Sunday. No real
point in rushing. And there are loose ends. .
  'Loose ends: '
  'Ummm. To tie up. Lawyers, agents. So on.'
  'Oh well. . . if you are staying, that's fine. Take a trip to
San
Francisco. You simply have to see that, it's the most European
city
in America.'
  'I haven't really thought about much yet. Lea. you want to see
San Francisco%'
  Lea had joined Dubrovnik and Sybil across the room. 'I want to
see what: '
  'San Francisco: '
  'It's beautiful. . . and fun. Yes. sure.' she called.
  'I've got the car,' said Alice quietly. tracing a finger down
the
seam in the back of his jacket. 'I can always park the children
for
a day or two, with a little warning. A couple of nights.
Something like that. We could go up to Carmel, Big Sur. . . it's
ravishing.'
  Lea came slowly back towards the fireplace.
  'As you are passing a full tray of delicious drink.' said
Jonathan.
'could you bear to bring me one, please: '
  'Jonathan. You'll be pissed out of your mind. This is your
third.'
said Lea.
  She handed him the full glass, removed the empty one. Across
the
room Sybil laughed.
  'You are too much! Whoever heard of a peacock with a wooden
leg! '
  'My second. I think. I lost half a glass choking. Right.
Sybil%'
  She turned and came back across the room. 'Dubrovnik swears
that there is a peacock in that carpet with a wooden leg, I mean.
his imagination is quelquechose! Sure, Jonathan. you lost half
a
glass.'
  'Can I get pissed% Lea says I am.'
  'I don't mind. honey. I'll get worried when you start wearing
the
lampshades. '
  'I won't. Promise. I'm free! Tiddly-tiddly-dee!'
  'An airship? Or a balloon: ' said Lea.
  'ummm. An airship! I want to be an airship. Zoom. zoom. You
told me balloons were just full of. . . hot air. Remember?'
  'I do. So you are an airship full of Dom Perignon.'
  'What a flight it's going to be!'
  'What are you both talking about: ' Alice slid from the arm of
the
chair on to the seat behind Jonathan. leant over his shoulder.
Position of possession established.
  'Helium Perignon.' said Jonathan.
  'I intagine it's a private joke: A bit rude in company,' said
Alice.
  'No. No. it's not private. Anyone can hear it, eh Lea: Only Lea
is being a bit bossy this evening. and Lea knows. don't you, what
happens to bossy women and me: '
  'Oh I do. They end up in Devon, right: ' said Lea gravely.
'With
a herd of. . .'
  'Shetland ponies!'
  'I think you are both out of your minds,' said Sybil.
  'It's going to be. no it is, a wonderful party!' said Jonathan.
  Sybil slumped on to the settee. 'Parties. It's the only thing
we do in this dump. Have parties. Every night. Same faces, same
food.
same rented butler. same rented maids. same conversation. it is
so
God-awful. But what else to do here. I ask you? If you can get
into
one of those "quaint" European-style restaurants you risk food
poisoning and instant deafness from the noise. or else are bored
to
death by the people you didn't ask to the party you didn't give
that
evening. and when you drive home you could be mugged by a
carload of junkies. I mean it is all so damned civilized! Of
course you
can stay home and try bleeping out the commercials on the TV, but
there is a limit to the fun in that. Dubrovnik is so lucky! Going
to
Brazil. he tells me. into the jungle. Death at every step from
Indians
and boa constrictors. I mean, it's varied, you do admit that? You
want another drink. my brave explorer. before one of my half
witted
and adorable Mexicans says dinner is ready% Or burnt.'
  Dubrovnik bent down and kissed her head. 'I never kissed nylon
hair before. Is great.'
  'You dumb Slovak! It's real hair. . .'
  Alice made a determined effort to pursue her theme. `I'm trying
to persuade Jon to stay on a little, see the place.' she said.
  'You should,' said Sybil. 'Lots to see. Right at hand.
Grauman's
Chinese Theatre. the La Brea tar pits, Disneyland! Wow!'
  'I meant a trip. San Francisco. Fisherman's Wharf. Chinatown.
. .
Hugo adored it all.' She was deliberately leaving Lea out of this
conversation. Aware of an enemy. aware that the enemy was
aware.
  'When are you going to Brazil%' said Jonathan.
  Dubrovnik shrugged. hands in pockets. `Sometime. Soon
anyway. I cannot say for sure. I want to be there for the rain
time,
and for the summer. the dry period. It is documentary I do.'
  Alice straightened Jonathan's collar: he moved forward
slightly.
`You lose your job. and Dubrovnik just gets the permits to do
his.
Fate. But there are always second chances, aren't there? Or don't
you believe in second chances. Jon%'
  'Hadn't given it much thought really.'
  'Oh. I think that you should. Life would be too dreadful if one
only
ever had a single chance at anything.' She looked calmly.
directly,
at lea. 'Mind you,' she said. pressing her chin into Jonathan's
shoulder with overt 'familiarity. 'I don't think that one can
recapture youth. That's time lost. But it can still be fun to
plan things. It isn't
too late to do that. is it: Do you remember what an impetuous
fellow
you were: '
  Jonathan looked at his glass. `Was I so impetuous? Don't
recall.'
  'Spur of the moment things. Adventures! Of course you remember.
'
  Lea got up and walked slowly towards a bird-cage at the far end
of the room, singing softly under her breath.
  'There's nothing in there to see. sweetie. You think I maybe
keep
a raven in there?' Sybil had risen and joined her at the cage.
  Lea pushed it gently with a finger. It swung slowly backwards
and forwards: the two paper doves. wings raised, remained steady,
beak to beak. wired to their perch. 'Cooing doves.' said Lea.
`You
know they are really bloody creatures. Did you%'
  'No. I didn't. Why?'
  `Well, they aren't sweet and gentle at all. They smother their
young. fight to the death. and. . .' she paused. looking through
the
swinging bars at Alice, '. . . peck each other's eyes out.'
  Sybil followed her look. 'That where it is at the moment?'
  'That's where it is.'
  'Jonathan: '
  'I'm keeping him.'
  'You do.' said Sybil. 'He doesn't come in batches of a dozen.
Alice
is my friend, I love her dearly. . . however, give it a moment.
I'll go
break it up. . . the perfect hostess. you'll see.' She raised her
voice
deliberately. `Dubrovnik! What are you doing? Praying?'
  Dubrovnik was kneeling on the floor with a thick coffee-table
book before him. his hands clasped in ecstasy. 'You know this
book.
Sybil? That Creen Hell? Is amazing. I never saw before. Is all
about
where I will go. The Amazon. . . look at this. Amazing!'
  'It's been in the house since I started renting. I prefer the
Merv
Griffin Show. . .' She walked over to Alice and Jonathan.
  'My dears. we are awaiting a guest, not dinner. One Nettles.
Usually so punctual but tonight a little late. If he's not here
in ten
minutes we start. or everything will be ruined.'
  'Where is he. Geoffrey?' said Alice.
  'You know he won't answer to Geoffrey. He's gone to a small.
ery in-teem cocktail bash that the Dean of Beekmann College is
throwing for him. A personal "thank you for all you have done to
try and teach my slobs a little of Roman literature and letters".
I
guess they'll give him a present, don't you? They usually do. An
ink-
well or a cigar-box or some damned thing. so. Jonathan mine, if
you want a quick refill now is the time to get it. We eat in ten
minutes, Nettles or no Nettles.' Broken it. she thought. Given
him
a chance to move. Up to him now.
  She caught Lea watching her. raised her eyebrows. went and
knelt on the floor with Dubrovnik who was still going through his
book. Lea joined them.
  'Always very impetuous,' said Alice. `If you have chosen to
forget
your madcap past, I am here to remind you. I remember
exceptionally
well. It was so much fun. Do you remember I once told you that
I
only really laughed with you? You were the only person who made
me, truly and honestly, laugh: Isn't that odd%' She lay back in
the
chair, the empty glass in her hand. smiling. 'Jon! Of course you
remember. 'course you do. I know that you do.' She flicked the
rim
of her glass with a fingernail; a fine crystal ring eddied round
them.
faded and was gone. 'Avignon? Forgotten?'
  Jonathan edged to the extreme limit of the chair-seat, turned.
looked at her.
  Smiling still. the finger which had flicked the glass trailed
across
parted lips, her eyes were bright. shadowed, he could see, far
away
at the back. with unease and doubt, hair a wild disorder of gold
against the white cushions. Still desirable. Still Alice. Alice
of
Avignon, even. But no one I really know. I don't know this woman.
Worse. I don't want her.
  `A long time ago,' he said. `Such a long time ago.'
  'Oh! Come on now! Not that long ago. Not millions of years
ago. .
  'Yes it was. In my calendar anyway. I can't remember so far
back. ' He touched her arm lightly. took the empty glass, rose,
looked
down at her. 'Much too late now. A refill? I'm getting one for
myself?'
  'Kinder than kind.' she said: watched him leave.
  Rejection. There we go again. Rejection. This time pleasantly
done: a gentlemanly way to do it. not brutal like Hugo. . . sweet
rejection from dull, always-waiting, adoring. Jonathan. What the
hell has he found in one single week in this town% Lea: nice,
boring.
Lea. Just what he needs. A sort of jelly-baby love-affair. But
where
did I go wrong% Where have I always gone wrong I fell in love
with
only one man. Hugo. and then failed him. Still wanting him: still
loving him. But not he. He didn't want me either. Christ! I've
been
a failure all the way through. The laughing. golden girl. desired
by
many. taken by few. Lost him to wriggling black girls with Afro
hairstyles and parked chewing-gum. Ethnic, he said. Savage, real,
so exciting, violent and primitive.
  Ethnic my foot.
  He just wanted a different kind of sex. And got it. And left
me out.
I couldn't hope to deal with them. Ethnic! Sweet heaven! Nothing
but lust and common or garden carnality. I was no longer
interesting sexually. That's all. Nothing more. Used up.
  She swung herself gracefully into the seat of the chair.
rearranged
her hair. rearranged her face. so that when Jonathan reached her
with out-hold glass she was smiling. 'Lovely. One does rather
need
it. I mean. what a party. Five people in a room the size of an
aircraft
carrier! Hollywood evenings: one gets used to them in the end.'
  'Nettles will lift things.' said Jonathan.
  'I've been thinking,' said Alice. pulling a strand of hair
behind her
ear. 'Which usually means that the party is a disaster and one
has
time to consider. that everything which went wrong with Hugo
ever since the day we hit this wretched town didn't really happen
to Hugo Arlington at all. Do you follow?'
  'Not really. no.'
  'It happened to Arthur Sean Sproule. not the glittering fake
which he wore like cheap jewels. It was Arthur Sean Sproule who
went to bits here, couldn't "carry his corn". know what I mean?
It wasn't Hugo Arlington who failed, because he didn't. in all
honesty. exist. It was the weaker man who tried to camouflage
himself with all the glitter and glamour, all those fucking
clever bits
of writing. but it all came to pieces in Los Angeles. Sproule,
the man
inside, couldn't handle things here. If there ever had been a
real
Hugo Arlington. the elegant, fastidious. so certain of himself,
he
might have done things better. Los Angeles. all the "tricks and
treats". none of those would have thrown him at all. And the
strange thing is that I have only just come to realize it here.
in this extraordinary room. What I married and in fact what I
got. was Mr
Sproule, with all his faults. Not Mr Arlington with all his
virtues.'
  'Very complex.' said Jonathan. who had remained standing. 'And
a strange time to find out.'
  'Well. . .' Alice raised her glass. pushed the heavy hair
behind her
shoulders. 'we all of us find out. . . a bit too late. Don't we?'
She
turned as Sybil hurried past with a cry of welcome as Nettles
arrived
in the tall archway. slim. elegant. haggard as a hanging judge.
  'Dinner is saved! We can eat at last! Oh Nettles. we have so
missed
you,' said Sybil. leading him towards the small group of four by
the
fire. 'A little drink before we eat: Anything?'
  Nettles raised an imploring hand. 'I am awash, my dear Sybil,
with some hellish wine-cup. and almost killed by a surfeit of
kindness. The Dean and his lady, Mrs Pilkinton, who implored that
I
should call her Milly. which I could not bring myself to do. have
given me the most perfect, "personalized". farewell party you can
imagine. There were various members of the Faculty and their
wives and everyone made speeches of the utmost gravity and lethal
boredom in a perfectly hideous room in a concrete-and-plastic
hotel
and I am half dead with it all. The kindness. . . the warmth. .
. After
all. we did have the official farewell dinner at the end of term.
. .
but this was "personal". And awful.'
  'Sit down.' said Sybil. putting a glass of scotch into his
hand.
'Drink this and then we'll go eat. Dinner will hold a few
minutes.
What we all want to know is, did you get a present? A scroll of
honour: An engraved cigar-box or ink-well. . . something?'
  Nettles sipped the drink, closed his eyes. 'It is all so
appalling. Yes.
There was a presentation.'
  'What is it: ' said Lea.
  Nettles opened his eyes and looked at her. 'You'll have to pack
it.'
  'What is it: Gold, silver. what? Wood or paper?'
  `Brass.'
  'Brass%' said Jonathan. 'A toasting fork?'
  'A most accurate model. I am assured. of Grant's tomb. Circa
1886.'
  There was a moment of silence.
  'I suppose,' said Jonathan, 'that there is a classical
connotation somewhere: '
  Nettles nodded tiredly. 'They seemed convinced of it. I have
never seen Grant's tomb. Next time perhaps. . . next time
around%' He
looked up. grinned suddenly, and finished his whisky.
  Dubrovnik put his arm round Alice's waist and followed Sybil
out
to the hall and the dining room. Nettles managed to get off the
settee and walked between Lea and Jonathan.
  'Isn't it funny.' he said. 'how many things can happen in a
perfectly ordinary day?'

  Dubrovnik lay on his back in the dark. Alice heavy in sleep.
on his outstretched arm. I never noticed those damned jeans. I
never
go to the cupboard. Well, not many times. I cleared all his
things,
all his stuff. But not those. Not that Polaroid. Now what was
that?
Something I don't know about. I know about the rest. dragged him
back here often enough. But Polaroid pictures. Like that. Where?
His? Did he buy it. . . are there more% Did he take them himself?
There is no camera here; no sign, he never said anything to me.
  Carefully, he raised himself, slid his arm from beneath Alice's
body. turned on his side.
  What to do% Etty Baker. Maybe Etty Baker would know? If she'll
tell. but no. She wouldn't tell even if she knew. and I suppose
she
didn't know, because whatever happened at Minty's in those days
it sure as hell wasn't that. Minty would have stopped that pretty
damn quick. 'Nothing under sixteen, chickadee,' she'd say. 'At
sixteen you can make a choice. Not younger. no sir.'
  Hugo Arlington. Your wife is in my bed, okay. But Christ! How
you haunt. How you haunt. Go away. you bastard. Go away! She
must never know about this terrible thing. She never will. You
seek
to destroy your family even from beyond the grave. Evil! Evil!
Evil!

chapter 8.
Conversations

Mouse sat upright in her chair. arms folded about her body.
motion-
less apart from her feet which swung nervously a few inches above
the worn carpet of her bedroom.
  'I don't know. I really don't know., she said aloud in English.
'It
is not at all the behaviour of Irina Miratova. it is not at all.
Is she
ill: Perhaps I should telephone Doctor Frost. . . such a
responsibility!
House calls are so expensive in America, and his appearance might
alarm her greatly. I'll wait.' She nodded her head in agreement.
'I'll
wait until tea-time. She told me to awaken her then.'
  'Come to me at tea-time, Mousie,' she had said.
  So I shall wait. But it is a great worry.
  For Irina Miratova to refuse her food for three days! To be
coaxed.
pleaded with, finally implored to take a dish of hot soup just
to give
her a little strength after all the vodka which she had consumed.
That was the oddest of things, odder than the silence, for she
was.
by nature, generally exceedingly greedy. The fact that she spoke
hardly at all was not. in itself, alarming. She was frequently
silent
now. But not to eat!
  Of course she was a good Russian, and vodka was something to
which she was well accustomed. She could, and often she had,
drunk a man under her own table and been none the worse. Merrier
even. and proud of it.
  But this form of drinking was different. Steady, silent.
joyless. All
in the few days since her tea with Alexi Andreyev. Something
serious must have taken place at that meeting. What could it have
been:
  Irina Miratova was not in the very least interested in anything
which had happened to Mouse that afternoon. not the slightest
glimmer of interest did she show. but that was really not
unusual.
She hardly ever showed interest in what Mouse did. and if bored
by
detail. yawned. But it was strange that on this occasion. an un-
expected journey into town. a taxi, bargains to discuss, she had
showed not the very least signs of curiosity or even awareness,
but
had simply sat silent in the taxi and stared ahead as Mouse
recounted, with a degree of suppressed delight. how she had
managed
to secure six toilet rolls for the price of only four at a
discount store.
A bargain which she shyly hoped would bring at least a murmur
of praise and which she would then be able to cap with the
astonishing fact that she had found a liquor store where she had
purchased
three bottles of vodka. saving thirty cents on each. She had been
elated by the great whitewashed letters scrawled across the
windows. 'Slashing Reductions! All Stock Reduced! Save DOLLARS!
Must Close!' Normally such an eye for thrift would have elicited
at
least a nod of approval from Irina Miratova.
  But not that afternoon.
  Mouse's breathless announcement went almost unnoticed. A
slow. sliding look from pale grey eyes, hooded now with un-
accustomed concern. Nothing verbal at all. What had gone wrong:
  'Countess. dear,' said Mouse speaking in Russian so that the
driver would not understand her. 'Are you quite well? Perfectly
well? I am suddenly persuaded that you are not yourself at all.'
  'I am perfectly well, Mouse. thank you.' Irina Miratova stabbed
her silver-topped cane into the floor of the car, turned and
looked
away through the far windows.
  'I have not vexed you: Please say if I have. I beg you: '
  'You have not vexed me. Not you.'
  Mouse nodded her head with relief. sat clutching the plastic
bags
of bottles and toilet rolls on her knees. 'If I have not vexed
you, and
if you are perfectly well, then it is because you wish to ponder
on
the conversation you will doubtless have had today with Alexi
Andreyev, and I prattle away like the thoughtless creature that
I
am. I am. in all respects. quite unthinking.'
  'And I.' said Irina Miratova in a strangely loud voice. 'am but
a
cog. A cog. I am nothing more.'
  Mouse was quite bewildered. However. she refrained from
making any comment because she didn't know what to say. And
when they had reached the house and she had paid off the taxi,
there was still a void of silence about them as she fumbled with
the
keys. for she was quite unable to phrase a question or offer a
soothing remark. It was far above her head. Cog: What did that
mean:
  The evening was most depressing. The Countess had refused to
eat. declined to speak almost at all. had said that she did not
wish
to listen to the radio. and finally went to her bed in a slightly
tipsy
manner (one could hardly say drunken. but a good deal oF vodka
had been consumed all the same), in complete silence.
  And she hardly murmured at all while Mouse removed her corset.
the snake-rolled hair-stuffing. the black coat with the beaver
collar
and her well-darned black cashmere and put them away in the
wardrobe with the speckled mirror. Thinking. hoping. that it was
just The Mood and that tomorrow the Countess would be quite
recovered. Mouse left her in the high bed. the vodka close to
hand.
and pattered oFf to lock up the house and prepare for nightfall.
  But The Mood persisted to such an extent that within three days
all the vodka which she had so prudently bought from the liquor
store was gone. and she was forced to drive into the local
shopping
precinct for replenishments. It was there that. aware that her
mistress had eaten nothing but one boiled egg which she said made
her feel ill, she discovered some packet soups and a little
chicken
wing and breast in a paper platter wrapped in cling-foil. which
she
had purchased for half price because the date of expiry had
passed.
and hastened home with a singing heart, her head filled with
ideas
for some delicious dish. perhaps chicken and rice? which she was
perfectly certain that her mistress would find acceptable.
  She did not.
  It had not even been regarded: merely waved distastefully away,
so that Mouse mournfully ate her little treat by herself in the
shadowy kitchen, keeping one eye on a simmering saucepan of
packet tomato soup.
  It had been a wretched three days: four in fact. and she found
that
the normal pattern of life was seriously altered and bothersome.
Irina Miratova rose late, was helped into her bundle of woollens.
assisted down the wide staircase. murmuring softly. 'Dust! Dust!
Dust!', and eased painfully into a high-backed chair in the big
room.
facing the windows which looked out towards the grey Pacific. She
sat there without speaking. except to reply occasionally. in a
perfectly civil manner. to any sensible question which Mouse
cared to
ask her. She ignored what she considered trivial ones.
  Mouse knew, very well indeed. that although her mistress might
appear to the casual onlooker to be doing nothing more
interesting
than staring blankly at a dull sea. she was in fact looking far
beyond
that. towards their native land, for she had said often enough
that
beyond the pale horizon lay the infamous islands of Japan, but
that
beyond them. and a little to the north, was Russia.
  'Oh, Countess!' Mouse had said one day many years before, 'it
makes it seem so near! If we were to walk. in a straight line
mark
you, right across the sea. across those deceitful islands. where
should we arrive: Can you say, Countess: '
  The Countess (who was not certain) said with authority, 'Vladi-
vostok!' And therefore, ever after, Russia had seemed nearer to
California, and afforded them both comfort in difficult times.
  'Across the sea is Japan. After Japan is Vladivostok!' Mouse
was
strengthened.
  And so she knew exactly why her mistress sat staring daily to
the
west.
  And then one morning, grudgingly accepting the dish of soup,
to
the great delight and consternation of Mouse. she demanded some
crackers. which she crushed into the chemical brew and made of
it a mush, which she supped eagerly, grumbling inaudibly. It was
the grumbling. more than the crackers. which set Mouse's heart
a-
flutter. Irina Miratova was emerging from her deep Russian Gloom.
like a bear from its long winter sleep. and she was convinced
that
soon she would be quite herself again, thinner perhaps. but the
Countess Miratova of old.
  And she would be alive because Mouse had had the imagination
to purchase a few packets of soup and tend her with loving
care.
  Sitting in her room alone, arms folded about the small body as
if hugging it for warmth and the affection which she had so
desperately lacked for years, Mouse remembered that this was not
the first Russian Gloom into which Miratova had sunk so deeply:
that had happened a long time ago. had been profound. and
straining when Senator McCarthy had reduced their guest-list
drastically
and the house to a silent place.
  No one laughed often in those days. The teas. for which the
house
had been so famous, ceased altogether. The samovar grew tarnished
beneath its cloth cover, the guests fled to the east. either to
New York. or, some said. even Europe. In the middle of it all.
perhaps
due to stress. Miratov had fallen dead while shaving, and shortly
after his funeral, which Miratova considered had cost her far
more
than was necessary. three men in long overcoats and grey felt
hats
arrived one day from the FBI.
  Useless for Mouse to say that her mistress was in deep mourning
for a much loved husband (she excused herself the lie by crossing
her fingers under her pinafore and swore to confess that evening
to her icon, an event which was as unlikely as her riding a
camel,
for she had long ago renounced religion and only paid lip-service
now and again to an ill-defined Saviour). but she insisted that
they
should remove their hats and lower their voices. Which they did.
  She never knew the reason for this visit. and was never told
of
it later. but she did hear. through the closed double-doors of
the big
room. an outraged and impassioned speech from Irina Miratova
about being driven from her class and from her country by the
'swinish Bolsheviks' (a phrase which caused Mouse to double up
with suppressed glee), that she had taken an oath of allegiance
to
the Star Spangled Banner. that America had offered her sanctuary
at a desperate period in her life, and that she would never. at
any
time. offer hospitality to, or knowingly harbour a traitor to,
that
country, in her own home or anywhere else for that matter, even
be they members of her own flesh and blood!
  It was strong, histrionic stuff, and went on for some time. and
whatever she said seemed to have a soothing effect on the gentle-
men from the FBI because. after she had dutifully recognized one
or two names on a long list provided. they gave up and left. hats
in
hand, and were never heard of again.
  'I named names on the lists only of those I knew were safely
out
of the country.' Miratova said later. 'I know those tricks. They
seemed unaware that I have had close experience of the GPU.'
  But the house remained calm, silent. dusty; for finally the two
daily women had to go for lack of funds and the house reverted
to
mouse and her mistress. There were fewer and fewer parties to
which she was invited, no one was sure who anyone was,
politically, and her monthly meetings with her 'messengers' were
managed with the greatest care possible. Anyway, she had nothing
very much to offer them. During the years of McCarthy her
'messenger' was a slight. pale, fair-haired girl, who knitted all
the
time and read her own poetry. . . aloud. It was perfectly
dreadful
stuff. quite unremarkable. But then so was the situation. An
elderly.
one could almost say old, woman sitting on a bench on the
sea-front
with a plain, over-eager girl with a red nose. a permanent cold
and
a knitting bag. No one could remark on that.
  No one did.
  And so they managed together. frugally. cautiously. and
finally.
with the end of McCarthy, triumphantly.
  But it was the end of the days of splendour; they had gone
beyond
recall.
  Mouse leant back in her chair, legs idly swinging. smiling
softly
at the remembrance of things past. So far away! So long ago! How
one had had to fight to exist, to survive. And these last few
terrible
days at last appeared to be ending. At tea-time. as instructed.
she
would take up Miratova's glass of lemon tea and see how she was.
  If she had sunk back into apathy and gloom, then Mouse would
call Doctor Frost. no matter what the cost: a Russian Mood could,
after all, sometimes be physical rather than mental, and
Miratova.
when all was said and done. was in almost constant pain and no
longer young. She was really very old. Much older than I am,
thought Mouse, for I remember exactly when I was born. I remember
the year. Nineteen hundred. The start of this disagreeable
century. She looked at the tin alarm clock by her bed. It was
exactly
a quarter to three. She had an hour and a half to herself. What
to
do: What luxury!
  Her pine wardrobe was much smaller than that of the Countess
and contained many fewer garments. The beige suit, and the blue
for formal occasions. three hats of no particular shape or style
save
the one which she had redecorated for that last interesting
journey into town by taxi: a long flannel house-coat and a heavy
woollen coat for the colder days. She had owned it. she thought.
since just before the war, but could no longer be certain. Its
hem had been lowered and raised so often that she had finally
given in.
and left it where it was. Her eyesight was failing. so that made
close
stitching impossible. and her spectacles were almost as old as
herself.
  But behind this drab collection there lay beauty.
  A dark green taffeta dress which years ago someone had given
her because it had a cigarette burn in one of the many flounces
which ran round the rustling skirt. A little piece clipped from
an
inside piece of selvage, which of course didn't show, and gummed
to the back of the hole, made the dress as new as ever. and she
had
been much complimented. in the early days, when she appeared in
it at the evening soirees which the Countess had once, long
since.
given.
  But on days such as this, with the grey light pressing hard
against
the narrow window, when depressions and fears yammered about
her like clamouring beggars causing her ill-defined panic and
distress, or when she had the time to herself, she would come up
to her room, lock herself in. and play her own invented game.
  It was very simple. Required no great effort. just the taffeta
dress
and two chairs. three if anyone was to `call'. But they seldom
did:
she found that inventing a third person was tiring and. often.
distracting.
  So there were just two chairs. one on either side of the dead
fireplace; for Mama and Papa.
  Today, changing from her rusty black dress with the removable
collar and cuffs into the green taffeta, she decided that.
perhaps just
today, she'd invent a visitor. And because it was such a
depressing
day. and had been such a worrying week. she decided to reinvent
Hugo Arlington to join their group: he always cheered them up so
well. And as she arranged her only necklace of ivory beads (a
long-
ago gift from Sybil Witt). she considered her conversation, for
as
there would be no one present - all her guests were long dead -
she
would have to do all the talking.
  She'd listen. of course, politely to anything that anyone had
to
say and remember the little jokes, the odd turns of phrase, with
which they had once delighted her. If she could remember them.
Memory was becoming a problem.
  Of course. she reasoned, buttoning the long green sleeves. she
could always invent. or reinvent to be accurate. her sisters Olga
and Nadia, but because they had been oldec, and alas! far, far.
prettier
than she, she usually found it convenient to keep them
uninvented.
somewhere in the shadows of her mind. lest they become too
troublesome with the visitor. She wanted no trouble with Hugo
Arlington. He was most desirable to young and impressionable
girls.
and she was. today anyway. quite determined to have him all to
herself. Apart from anything else she knew him better than the
others; for the others had never met him. of course. Never met.
She
fiddled with the last difficult button on the left sleeve. They
were
dead long before Hugo Arlington even saw the first crack of
light.
or uttered his first cry. Dead. All dead.
  'I suppose,' she said aloud. 'I suppose that they died: '
  The harsh bite of the frost. the curious way that it melted so
slowly as she lay, face to iron earth. hardly daring to breathe.
under
the glacial myrtle bush. She was too afraid to call out. even in
a
whisper, to her father. They were somewhere on her left. she
knew.
Grigori. who was guiding them through the thick forest. had
instructed them in a low voice to spread out and take cover. and
as the sun rose, a scarlet disc burning through black trees,
silvering
the icy bark of the birches, they had crept away from each other
on hands and knees into the scrub. Poland. Grigori told them. was
across the field.
  The field lay pinky white in the frost and rising sun. It
terrified
  her by its width. by the sheer nakedness of its length which
they
  would have to cross in order to reach safety in the woods
beyond.
  And then she had heard him leave stealthily. She knew the sound
  of his heavy breathing. the rattle of phlegm in his chest. He
had gone
  to contact the other guide who would take them over the border.
  She lay quite still. Once she called out very softly. `Papa?'
and he had whispered. 'Hush!' Then silence.
  She had heard the sudden crackle of twigs. the brushing of ice-
  heavy leaves. Nadia murmur something, her father start to
protest.
  Grigori mutter angrily. and in the wild confusion of words and
  cracking sticks she heard the shouts. the shots. her mother cry
out
  in shrill alarm. a black crow flap away. low. across the white
iced
  field. And suddenly she knew that she was alone. That she would
, never see them again.

  `So I suppose that they died then% For so many years I have
supposed. I have prayed so often. dear Saviour. that you made it
as
quick as it seemed. But I shall never know for certain. I'll
never
know. '
  In the sudden hush she had inched even deeper under her myrtle
bush as booted legs stamped. inches from her small body. She lay
for a long time, eyes closed; heard the shouting, sudden bursts
of
laughter. the clattering rumble of a cart being brought up, and
covered her ears instinctively with her hands at the first heavy
thud
of something hitting the plank floor of the cart. What? A body:
Mama: Papa: Olga or Nadia: There was no other sound, no
woman's voice, for although she covered her ears she still half
listened in her dread. And then men laughing coarsely, talking,
spitting. The groan and wrenching of the cart as it swung about.
the clumbering of the horses, snorting with effort, the
jingle-jangle
of the metal harness-bits. the swish and sweep of bushes bent and
roughly pushed aside. and Grigori's voice. 'One missing! We've
lost
one!'
  Betrayed. Papa had said that they often did that, the guides,
especially if they had been well paid before to lead them, as
Grigori
had been. 'You don't have any need to fear. little Miss,' he had
said
when they set out. hand on her head so gently. `It is the White
Army
sector where we go. No stinking Bolshevik will be near. . . We'll
have no trouble. . .'
  No trouble.
  After the cart had trundled into the distance the silence fell
about
her like a cloth. a silence so infinite. so long, that she was
almost
dead with fear. and the strange burning cold of the ice which
even
penetrated the two thick skirts and the heavy coat Mama had made
them wear, a tiny icon sewn into the lining.
  As the sun rose higher. crows cawing, flapping above her head.
she sensed that she was quite alone in the woods. but dared not
move for fear that perhaps, just perhaps. they had left one man
behind to watch and wait. An old trick. He'd pick her off like
a hare.
  It was not until dusk. crippled with cold, bowed down by sodden
clothing, her mouth dry in spite of the constant licking of iced
leaves
nearest to her to slake her thirst. body wet through with the
melted ice on which she had lain so long. that she cautiously
started to ease
  herself away from the sheltering myrtle and make her way in the
  gathering gloom down the side of the long white meadow. keeping
  close to the shelter of the wood which framed it. and then. at
the
' far end. when the wood became thicket and scrub. she pushed
  through taut strands of vicious wire. ripping her hands.
wrestling
  in fear and mounting terror.
  There were male voices far away, somewhere to her left. lending
  panic to her efforts. She tore herself through the wire.
hurrying half
  bent beneath the frozen trees and frosted bushes until she
reached
  a rutted track which led. in time, to a small country road. It
was
  dark now.
  Ahead a shielded lantern bobbing, a woman's coarse voice
calling. a male voice in reply, the sudden squealing and grunting
of a pig, the woman crying out, scolding, angry.
  In Polish.
  And then she began to weep. and ran towards the bobbing light.
  'Mama! You will be most interested to know that. today, we have
, a visitor! A visitor from England! Is not that exciting: He is
a famous
  writer and most highly considered there, and so for that reason
we
  shall be obliged to speak in English. Oh, I know that will pose
no
  problem for you Mama, for you speak it with a fluency which has
  been greatly admired. and of course you have often been there
  yourself. But Papa! Now, Papa, you will have to try your very
best.
  I shall ask our visitor to speak most carefully and slowly. so
that you
  should have little trouble in understanding him. He has a voice
of
  mellowness and beauty. which will delight you. and we shall,
of
  course. entertain him as he is accustomed to being entertained
and
  for that reason we shall use a tea-pot and not the samovar!
Papa!
  You frown! Fie! What poor manners! You will see. we shall drink
  tea from the finest bone china. The same. I am assured. as that
used
  by the þzarina in her own sitting room at Tsarskoe Selo, in the
  Volet Room, and we shall drink Lipton's Darjeeling, a rare tea
of
  great flavour and distinction, and as a most particular treat
we shall
  offer him McFarlane and Lang's own shortbread which. I know.
  Papa. is a particular favourite of yours. Only this time. on
this
  especial occasion. I would beg that you do not dip it in your
tea. This
is much frowned upon in good circles in England. Our visitor will
appreciate our delicacy and taste. We shall show him that we are
not Russian vulgarians. which is too often the case I fear. and
although shortbread is not. strictly speaking, an English
confection
but a Scottish one, I am certain that he will not be in the least
put
out. Except that we must remember to call it Scots. Not Scottish.
That
also is frowned upon, I am told.'
  Mouse moved from chair to chair during this monologue. her arm
resting lightly on one, and then on the other. as she spoke and
listened to her parents. head to one side, a small bird. eyes
bright.
sometimes folding her arms before her. She had brushed her sparse
hair neatly. bound it round with a velvet ribbon which she had
saved from a box of chocolates someone had thrust upon her many
Christmases ago in a last-minute flurry of forgetfulness.
  'Now then! Are we ready for our guest% Papa. you promise me
that you will not doze off: Mama, you will be quite enchanted.
he
is wondrously handsome and very witty. He is here! I know! I know
his tread upon the stair!' And then she turned towards the locked
door. her hands to her lips, to contain the slightest cry of
pleasure
which might have escaped them.
  'Mr Arlington!' she said, offering her hand. `How exceedingly
good of you to grace this modest house. Mama. Mama. may I
introduce Mr Hugo Arlington, the writer, of London. . . and this
is
my Papa. I fear that Papa is rather naughty. . . ah! yes! you are
dear
man, for you will not speak English. and he speaks it perfectly
well,
you know, he also reads it fluently. Are you perhaps acquainted
with the illustrated London News. Mr Arlington% He reads that
exceptionally well. From cover to cover. Mama, of course. speaks
it fluently. Oh Mama! You are too modest I fear. What will Mr
Arlington think of me if I make false claims! Mama has spent
three
Seasons in London and also in the country, in some of the very
prettiest places you can imagine. and she rides most beautifully.
In
this country of ours we are born and bred with horses, you might
say. Ah! Now I have shocked Papa. but nevertheless, it is so. Mr
Arlington, pray sit. This chair: Or perhaps this one, not so near
the
fire: I recall that the last time you graced our company you said
that
you preferred to stand, just to wander about quite freely as you
spoke. am I correct: I think so. You said that a chair made you
feel that you were imprisoned. Is that not droll. Mama? A chair
to be
  like a prison: But you are a writer. and a writer must be free
to move
  and express himself as he wishes, so please do. Tea will be
ready in
  a jiffy, the kettle has not quite come to the boil. and that
is very
  important to a good infusion. it is so: Ah! I am glad that I
was right.
  No. Papa! Mr Arlington does not write novels! He writes serious
  books. nothing as frivolous as a novel. and he has other
virtues
  unguessed at yet! He sings quite beautifully and he also plays
the
  pianoforte. Now!' She suddenly raised a teasing finger. 'Here
is an
  astonishing thing! He also takes photographs! He makes no boast
  of this. I know, but nonetheless it is so. You did not know
that I was
  aware of your little secret, Mr Arlington, did you: Whatever
next!
  Well. do you recall the time that you came to burn some papers
in
  the big furnace below: Manuscripts. I think that you said they
were?
  Do you remember% Well. that day you left your little camera
behind
  in that dismal cellar, just lying in a cardboard box. . . quite
forgotten. and. . .' she removed her hand from behind her taffeta
back.
  '. . . here it is! Quite intact. As you left it. Am I not the
cleverest
  creature you have ever met? It was perfectly simple of course.
the
, place was so wretchedly dark, the camera is black. and you were
  in quite a spin that day I recall. quite a spin. . . so easy
to overlook.
' But directly you were finished down there I hurried to see if
all was
  well. This house is all of wood, you see: the furnace had not
been
  used for so long. and I was a teeny bit afraid that. . . well.
. . a spark?
  Something? But I raked about in the ashes. . . there was
nothing
  left glowing. . . you had burned everything quite up. I was
just being
  prudent. The Countess gets into such a fuss if I venture into
the
  cellar. she is afraid that I will do myself some kind of
mischief in the
  dark! Or fall through the stairs. Such nonsense! And she thinks
that
  I am afraid of darkness! Of all things! Darkness has been my
companion for far too long. I could not fear it now. But. I
prattle on! Here
  we are. your camera safe and sound. I was so delighted. for I
  determined that I should give it to you the very next time that
you
  returned. But you never came back. Never again. . .' She placed
the
  Polaroid camera on a small table between the two chairs. 'You
  would be very curious, Papa. it is a kind of magic. One presses
a
  button and click! there is the photograph all ready printed!
And in
  colour. . . in colour. . . clear as day. real as anything. .
. in colour!'
  She stood perfectly still, looking at the empty chairs before
her,
arms folded. a smile dying. In the sudden silence of the room the
tin clock struck the half-hour.
  'They are all dead.' she said. 'All dead. and I am alone.
Playing
a foolish game. But the game is quite over. . . the dead do not
respond.' She pulled the velvet ribbon from her head, rolled it
into
a tight coil, threw it into the seat of an empty chair. 'Talking
to them
doesn't bring them back.'
  She walked over to the narrow window, tugging at the tight
buttons of her sleeve, trying to reach the zip at her back.
surprised
that she could feel tears dribble down her face, curl into the
corners
of her mouth. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand,
disengaged her arms from the dress so that the sleeves and bodice
fell before her like a sagging apron.
  'They never reply, you know. never. Dead is dead.'
  She leant against the window. pressed her face against the cold
glass. The sea was leadened. the light failing. Her glasses
misting.
  Somewhere. far beyond the nervous ticking of the clock, she
heard the distant flapping of a crow's wings. a stick snap. a
woman
cry in sudden fear.
  She stayed quite still. face against the window, looking into
the
gathering gloom through blurring eyes towards the thin silver
thread on the horizon beyond which. she knew, lay Vladivostok.

chapter 9.
Santa Monica Beach

'One gets infinite pleasure from walking along a soaking winter
beach. In wet shoes. . . don't you think% Aesthetic% Something
of
that sort.' said Jonathan.
  Nettles looked down at his own feet. 'Are yours frightfully
wet%'
  ' Sodden. '
  'Well. . . tell you what. Let's take them off. Far more
comfortable.'
  'Barefoot: In January: Freezing: '
  'Oh. come novþþ. . . don't be so wet.'
  'But I am! You can see. . . Look, soaked through.'
  'Well take them off,' said Nettles. sitting down on the sand
and
unlacing his. 'There is simply no point in squelching about in
wet
shoes. Catch a cold.'
  'How far are we intending to march% All right if I ask%'
  'Oh. . .' Nettles removed one shoe. peeled off a sock. 'Yes.I'm
wet
too. Quite wet. Boring. Shoes today aren't what they were. March,
did you say: Oh, not far. Those houses down there. All right?'
  'All right. Mine are off. Look.' said Jonathan.
  'So they are. Frightfully good shape, your feet: beautifully
formed.
Like those Italian medieval figures of the Christ. do you know?
Bone
or ivory.'
  'Bone is what they feel like. Any idea how we carry these
things:
Shoes: '
  'Stick your socks in them. tie them together with the laces.
sling
'em round your neck. Simple. Like this. see%'
  They got up and started walking again, trousers rolled to the
shins.
  'I think this is a bloody awful place.' said Jonathan. 'Far
worse
than Cooden Beach.'
  'I never was there, I'm afraid. and I'm a little prejudiced I
suppose
because I have had the privilege of seeing this place in the
summer.
Very jolly. Bright, one might say. Lots of colours. All the young
smoking pot and screaming about with beach balls. The Americans
take their, what they call "Leesure". very seriously. All true
Californian - bronzed. tight-skinned, amazingly fitted out with
dentistry. It's so dreadfully sad that they age so badly. without
character and with desert wrinkles. The golden skin creases like
a
turkey's throat. Too sad. And then they all trail off and retire
to
Florida, at sixty.'
  'What's the building over there. in the middle, that brick
tent%'
  'Ah. The public conveniences. Approach them at your peril. The
stench is appalling. the mugging worse, and they do quite
terrifying
things to each other in the stalls. They have half doors, you
see, so
one is able to notice things all too clearly. even if one turns
one's
head and holds one's breath.'
  On their right the strange. eroded. earth cliffs. the Pacific
Coast
Highway. Tall Florida palms standing high, motionless in the
spumy air. like mops. To their left the sullen, flat. January sea
and ahead. fading into the drifting mists. a vague headland, a
clutter of
wooden buildings.
  'Far worse than looden Beach,' said Jonathan.
  The sea slid along the wide beach. scalloping the sand with
little
half-moons of foam.
  'I do think that you are being disagreeable. Jonathan. Really
I do.
Here we are. walking along the edge of the Pacific Ocean, walking
along the edge of the whole Western world you could say, and you
compare it with an unloved watering place in southern England.
Very narrow-minded. And don't even touch those!' he cried as
Jonathan stooped to wrench a cluster of mussels from a half
sunken
post.
  'Why: The size of them! Amazing!'
  'Instant death. Pollution. I regret to say that the Pacific,
on this
side, is the dumping ground of all the lavatories, and God knows
what else. in Los Angeles. and if you consider, should you so
wish
to do such an unsavoury thing. the proud boast that Los Angeles
covers two hundred square miles. you can, perhaps, imagine. . .
well. . . I leave it to you. dear fellow.'
  Jonathan threw the clutch of mussels out towards the ebbing
sea.
scattering a tight covey of little black-and-white birds which
scuttled on stick-thin legs backwards and forwards to the nudging
water.
  'That's exactly what I mean. It's bloody awful. But I am quite
enjoying it. Really.'
  'One would find it difficult to trace clues to that
impression.' said
Nettles.
  Jonathan laughed suddenly, punched him tightly on the arm.
They walked on in silence.
  'She came to you when she was ten. that's so%'
  'That's so.'
  'Hell of an adjustment.'
  Nettles looked across at him sharply. 'Tremendous. But. I hope
that you have seen. we managed pretty well.'
  'I have. Yes. Wouldn't have used the word "managed". though.
Isn't quite the right word. is it: '
  'Isn't it: What would you suggest instead: Coped: Struggled
through: Made out: What: '
  'I'd use a terribly banal word. I suppose. None of those.
Loved: '
! Nettles laughed. his breath drifting away on the still air.
'God!
  Isn't it awful. A word so charged with magic. with so many
glorious
  meanings and interpretations. with such a diversity of
possibilities
  is. and you are perfectly correct. all at once banal. Over-use.
I
  suppose. But yes. Yes indeed. you'd be right to use that word.
We
  loved each other almost from the very first. I say "almost"
because
  our very first meeting. alone together. man and child all
unaware,
  wasn't pleasant. Under the circumstances. Bloody. as a matter
of
! fact. It is not the easiest thing in the world to do to go to
see a child
  whom you know only as a child, vaguely, amusedly,
affectionately.
  and explain to her that her parents are dead and that she is
on her
  own in the world.'
! 'You did that: '
I 'No one else. No real family strangely enough. any that
mattered.
  And both parents were orphans. I was godfather. ergo. my duty.
I
' could not fail in it. or fail her, or her parents, and it is
not the kind
  of thing one leaves to a kind and understanding headmistress.
  however understanding.'
  'Christ. What a hellish thing.'
'Oh it was. It was.'
'I was actually thinking of you.
  `So was I.'
  'But you "managed"%'
  'Somehow. Difficult at first. For us both. A good deal of
re-adjustment here and there. One's private life was considerably
  altered, of course. and for the better. You see. the curious
thing is
  that in spite of my advanced and. I liked to think.
sophisticated,
  age, I had never really loved anyone or been loved by anyone.
Not
  unusual. of course, but unpleasant. Those banal words. love,
loved.
  Goodness me! But somehow they were not a part of my experience.
She changed all that. Sometimes the demands which she in-
  advertently made on me were quite enormous. Terrifying, on
  occasion. But I found that I could handle it because I knew
that she
  needed me. I'd never been needed before. It was a curiously
pleasant
  sensation. Still is. To my astonishment I discovered that I had
made
  the classical error of confusing sex with love. I sought sex
constantly. Anywhere. with anyone. in the mistaken, and desperate
hope that it would one day bring me love. Of course it never did.
  I am bitterly ashamed to have to admit to you, striding along
this
  empty beach on the edge of the world into what appears to be
a thick
  fog. that I had a predilection for the companionship, shall we
say.
  of some pretty rum people. Guardsmen, bricklayers, policemen.
. .
  an amazing number of policemen in my liFe, isn't that strange:
and
  what one knew, in my shady life. as Rough Trade. Naturally they
  brought no love at all. Sometimes we only met once - furtive,
ugly,
  almost silent meetings which ended, for me. in abject shame and
  misery. Horror. regret. all the banal words you can imagine.
I think.
  in fact I know, that when Lea was suddenly thrust into my life
by
  the unexpected and brutal killing of her parents under a
blazing
  petrol-tanker somewhere near Coventry, I had reached the point
oF
  such self hatred. was so suffused with a burned-out loathing
of
  myself, that I decided to pack it in. I had collected, over a
period
of time, a very jolly collection of pills which I planned to
swallow
with a bottle of scotch. Hadn't the guts, you see. to do it
sober. And
when I say that they were "jolly" I really only mean that they
were colourful. Hundreds and thousands we used to call them as
  children, a mixed bag of stuff I'd hoarded. Of course the jokey
thing
  is that I have a shrewd feeling that had I done such a thing
I'd have
  vomited, nothing more. A most awful let-down having to face
  another day with a reproachful nurse and a stomach pump. . .
I'm
  told the best way is to spread them all out in a sandwich.
crushed
  up if they are pills, or emptied out if they are capsules.
Depends on
your brew. It does seem a little idiotic to make oneself a deadly
sandwich and solemnly eat it all up with a glass of whisky.
Easiest
way is a razor to your wrists in a warm bath. I'm told. but
somehow.
after the war. I rather dislike shedding blood. Particularly my
own. '
  He stubbed his toe on a half buried stone. `Shit!' he said.
  `I'm sorry,' said Jonathan.
  'Doesn't hurt. . . just a stone. Wasn't looking.'
  'Not about that. The pills. so on.'
  'Oh! You really needn't be. Absolutely no need at all.
Everything
changed in one extraordinary, dreadful, day. I was sent for to
make
the official identification. Can't remember quite how they got
on to
me, or how they did so quickly, but I went. It was a peculiar
time.
Time out of life. It didn't seem to be happening to me. It was
as if I was watching me doing something from behind a two-way
mirror.
do you know what I mean% Not a reflection of life. a falsity. It
was
quite unreal. so it didn't, at first. hurt as much as it might.
It did later.
I was able to identify Rooke's car, what remained of it: knew the
number-plate. strangely. Odd how that stuck in my mind. But they
wouldn't let me see them. Emmie or Rooke. Very nice,
understanding. but firm. I identified his signet ring. crushed
flat. half
melted it seemed, and a bit of cloth. A piece of plaid from a
suit which
I knew he rather liked. It was harder with Emmie. Fragment of
blue
wool. a bit of metal which could have been a brooch or a clip.
Really
nothing. Anyway I couldn't positively identify anything, but I
did
recall that she had a tiny scar just above her right eyebrow. not
enormous. rather attractive actually. a childhood fall. . .
something.
I don't now remember. and the policeman or policewoman or
whoever it was, I can't be sure, said. "Oh, I'm sorry sir, but
there
is no face." '
  They walked in silence. Nettles cleared his throat. 'So you see
it
was quite difficult. Really very hard indeed. Finally they
produced
a bit of a bracelet. . . well. . . a few stones. But I recognized
them,
they'd bought it in Jaipur or somewhere. I knew it well. A few
stones. that's all.'
  'Nothing to say. Is there?' said Jonathan.
  'Nothing.' said Nettles. 'Nothing needed. it's all over and
done
with now. Years ago. and Lea. by the way. doesn't know any of
this
part, so just hold your tongue, will you, about that?'
  'Of course. '
  'I'd met her father. Rooke, in 194 5. Joined my division in the
East
Indies. a bad time. a civil war going on, grenades at breakfast,
that
sort of thing, terrorist stuff. He was very young. glowingly
good-
looking, not the greatest intellect I suppose. usual well-bred
public
school product. Good at games, well mannered, keen. Anyway I
fiddled things about so that he became A DC to our rather common.
but pleasant. General. Worked out very well. He was excellent at
  the job, and brave. Perfectly splendid.'
  'And lea's mother'
  'Oh. Emmie: Amazingly beautiful. Half Dutch, half Javanese.
  spoke English perfectly. Her family had been wiped out by the
  Japanese, and she'd been locked in a tiny windowless cupboard
for over a year by them as a punishment for stealing spare parts
and
  petrol and so on for trucks and cars some of the young people
had
  hidden in the jungle in preparation for the Liberation.
Madness,
  really. They rounded them all up. But she was wonderfully
brave,
  very determined. '
  ' Like Lea. '
  'Like Lea indeed. Extraordinary resemblance between them.
Same odd humour, too. . . anyway we needed interpreters badly,
she volunteered and became Rooke's assistant on our frightful
divisional newspaper. Worked wonderfully well. Two of the most
beautiful creatures I think that I have ever met, or ever will.'
  'And they got married%'
  Nettles scuffed wet sand ahead of him. `Yes. Got married. I had
a hand in that. as you might guess. She was reluctant - black
babies,
throwbacks. that sort of thing. He was so besotted I really don't
think he would have minded if she'd produced a packet of
Liquorice
Allsorts at the birth. You follow what I mean: '
  'Goodness yes.'
  'So she was heavily persuaded by me to take the risk. Of course
she was as dotty about him as he was about her. Their first child
was ravishing. Died early from some kind of problem babies can
get.
I don't know. Cot death or something. . . and they waited a bit
and
then. . .' he turned towards Jonathan. arms outstretched. '. .
. we
got Lea. I do think that we were wonderfully fortunate, don't
you?'
  `Wonderfully. '
  'She's woefully stubborn. I suppose you have discovered that
in
a few days% And she has. or had. the worst taste in men that I
have
ever encountered in a woman. Really ghastly.'
  `Thanks,' said Jonathan. `You are more than kind.'
  'Oh Lor'! Well. naturally I didn't mean you. I mean if I had,
I
wouldn't have said what I did. Would I% Follow: '
  'In a rather muddled way. yes.'
  'Oh no. No. you're all right. As long as she thinks so. It'll
be the
first sensible thing she has done, emotionally I mean. in her
life.
Really, some of the others were quite intolerable. . . I don't
know
why women do that kind of thing.'
  Jonathan saw that they had reached the clustered houses along
the edge of the beach. 'This is our limit. isn't it? The shacks:
Lights are going on. so it's getting a bit late. Should we start
back:'
  Nettles sighed. 'No spirit. No guts. Really, Jonathan. And
these
"shacks", as you call them, would cost you your fortune should
you
wish to purchase one.'
  'Nothing could induce me. They look like those railway
carriages
on the shingle at Peverisey. . . I've told her that I love her.
by the
way. I mean she knows. Whether she believes me is. of course.
another matter.'
  'Oh. she believes you, I think.' said Nettles doing an
about-turn
and starting to walk back towards the pier. 'Been singing round
the
house for two days. . . and the preparation for lunch this
morning!
God! You'd think that every plate was to be set before emperors.'
  'As long as you know the situation,' said Jonathan. 'You have
to
know that.'
  `Doesn't make much difference to me now. Lea has lived her own
life for some time now. I don't literally wait for her to
spoon-feed
me. We have different places of abode. see each other. oh. . .
once
a week sometimes. Sometimes just telephone. But the marvellous
thing is that I know she is there. and she knows that I am there.
And if something troubles her she comes to me. Sometimes it is
a
bit inconvenient. I could be worrying away at, say. The Marriage
of
Peleus and Thetis. and she crashes in, sobbing, about another
blazered Flash Harry who has let her down. But one copes. one
copes. Of course she has far outgrown my advice. so she does
exactly
what she thinks is best. It often isn't, however. I just hope
that you'll
stick. It would be so relaxing, and although you are not exactly
in
the first flush of youth, so to speak, I would venture to say.
should
you have asked me, that you are very suitable. You'll bang her
about a bit when she gets tiresome. She needs it, and she likes
it as
a matter of fact. Useful. She can become incredibly bossy. . .
my fault
in the very early years. I let her have her way a bit too much,
perhaps.'
  'It is perfectly extraordinary.' said Jonathan. 'walking along
a
winter beach as we are. the lights springing up, the mist coming
down, gulls planing about. to be talking about her to you. Loving
her as I do. remembering her. even now, with little surges of
pleasure which knot my guts. do you know what I mean: Christ.
I'm saying it badly. . .'
  'No, no, no. . . I know exactly what you mean. Even I. without
  carnality. experience those surges. Quite sudden. sometimes un-
  expected. and often. if I didn't know what they were and who
had
  engendered them. I'd go to a clinic for a check-up. Madness.'
  'I love her so bloody much.'
  'And what of Alice Arlington%' said Nettles, vaguely looking
towards the lights of racing traffic along the Pacific Highway.
  `What of her: ' said Jonathan.
  'We met. if you remember, for the first time at her house. four
days ago, she said that you had known each other for a thousand
years. I merely asked.'
  'Oh. I've known her ages. And that tiresome husband.'
  'Wrote some good stuff. Arlington.'
  'Some. Yes. He patronized the arse off me, so perhaps that's
why
I didn't like him much. I know that my dislike should not extend
to the man's works. but it does.'
  'Yes. he could be exceedingly patronizing. I suppose one should
not speak ill of the dead.'
  'He would not have had the same scruples. I suppose that Alice
said that I had been in love with her for years and years. A
hopeless
love: She rather enjoyed the idea of a faithful. yearning,
adoring
swain.'
  'Oh, something of the sort. nothing much, an implication only.'
  'If I know Alice it was more than an implication. . . and she
was
right. I loved her for a very long time. hopelessly. idiotically.
Went
pop! that night.'
  'Pop: Do I take it that you mean the night we all dined there%'
  'You do. The instant I saw Lea. Poor Alice became poor. She
lost
her swain. she lost the devoted. slavering spaniel, who sat ready
to
obey her every whim. . . "Good boy! Come for walkies. . . Fetch
your
ball-ie. . . Catch! Guard! Seek!" I ran about doing everything
I
possibly could to please her. and Hugo was charming. Sometimes
I thought he might pat me on the head - for excellent behaviour.'
  'Alice know: About your feeling. as they say. for Lea?`
  'I think that she does. . . last night at Sybil Witt's supper.
She's
suddenly found herself alone here, west of Sunset as she calls
it,
because the lover-chap. what's his name%'
  'Boris Kragujevac. Dubrovnik for short.'
  'Him, well he's apparently off to Brazil or somewhere. as you
gathered. She'll be on her own. so she decided to call her
devoted
spaniel to heel. But I didn't catch! seek! or guard! I had waited
too
long, just too long. And I'm afraid she knew.'
  A wind swirled the sea-mist up and away along the beach.
dimming the brick tunnel. spinning a length of sodden yellow
ribbon
across their path like a bilious snake.
  'A yellow ribbon! Goodness. how quickly it's all forgotten.'
said
Nettles sadly.
  `So she knows. I don't very much care anyway.' said Jonathan.
'I know where I am now. and who I want. and I'm going to get her.
by fair means or foul.'
  `It'll be a great relief to me,' said Nettles. `Great relief.'
  `It'll be a great relief to me to get back to Europe. To leave
this
place. I know I've only been here a few days. that it is not
America.
but I really don't care for it. you know. Really not. There is
an
infinite sense of sadness. a sense of loss. of missing out. You
were
perfectly right just now when you said that we were walking along
the edge of the Western world. We are. One is aware of it all the
time, and I am absolutely terrified that I might fall off or,
much
worse even, be forced to stay here in this twilight existence as
a
permanent refugee. Like the rest of them.'
  'Not much longer now.' said Nettles briskly. 'In a week or so
you'll probably look back on this time with enormous nostalgia.
Lea
says that she will. She likes it here, strangely enough. Mind
you,
three weeks' holiday is hardly time to form an opinion. . .
neither
is a short week, like you. I've had a year - vastly interesting.
At my
time of life one grabs the chances. you know. This is one I
wouldn't
have missed for anything. The Americans are the most generous
people on earth, but I do þwish that I hadn't collected such a
mass
of junk I can't bear to leave behind. An iron skillet, for God's
sake!'
  'Grant's tomb.'
  'Oh God! Yes. That too. Such kindness. I say, I think that
perhaps
we'd better put on our shoes and socks, wet as they are. We are
almost at the pier, you know, and the hazards of walking barefoot
along it, or the promenade. are simply frightful. Gobs of spit
and
masticated chewing-gum. Rather have wet feet, wouldn't you?'
  'Much.'
  They sat together. back to back, on the trodden sand. i shining
with crimson lip-salve. silver shoes. a tight skirt. tee-shirt
  'No easy matter.' said Jonathan, struggling with a sanded foot
; with 'Screw Pigs' across heavy breasts.
and a sodden sock. ' 'She making her hair all plaits. with beads
and things,' said Etty.
  `I'm sorry that I've talked so much.' said Nettles. 'Bored you
; 'Reggae.' said Sabrina.
witless I shouldn't wonder. Habit. Lecturing. You should have '
'Whatever it is it ain't going to get a wash.'
stopped me.' , Sabrina sighed. 'So what: '
  'Not for anything. Thank you. Thank you. really.' ; 'You lose
your job. you look like a dirty girl.'
  'Can't get my socks on. I'll just wear shoes. If we get back
to the þ 'Who cares%'
house safely it'll be perfect timing for a cup of tea. And
remember. þ; `Your father'll give you a whippin'. . .'
never a word about her parents' deaths to Lea. you promise me%'
'Let him.' Sabrina laughed. head low. fingers ferreting among
  'I promise.' said Jonathan. beads and hair.
  'I brought something.' said Dubrovnik. holding out a wrapped
  bottle.

chapter 10.
Torcello Avenue, Venice

Dubrovnik kicked a tin can hard across the yard. It hit the side
of
the wrecked car with a 'clunk'.
  Etty Baker came out on to the porch wearing a thick knitted
pullover sagging round her hips.
  'You do that?' she said.
  'Yeah. Tin can.'
  'You take goddamned liberties with people's property. Catch
your
death. you walk about like that with no coat.' She turned and
went
into the house.
  Dubrovnik followed her up the four wooden steps. across the
porch, into the dingy hallway.
  'You come for your things: Shirts? Is all ready.'
  'I brought a couple of others, can you take them%'
  'Oh shit,' she sighed. 'It's Saturday. . . I got to be slaving
all the
week : '
  'No hurry.'
  'It's cold. right: Real nasty. This my eldest, Sabrina.' She
indicated a girl sitting by the window, head bent low. hands
plaiting
strands of coarse black hair. 'Sabrina! We got a visitor. You say
somethin': Nice, okay: '
  'Hi,' said Sabrina. without looking up.
  She was. Dubrovnik thought, about sixteen. Fat pouting lips
  Etty took it, sat down at the table which had taken the place
of the folding ironing board. 'You wanna sit? Move that goddamned
cat off.' She unwrapped the bottle. Held it high to the light
from the
window. 'Ain't that just the prettiest colour you ever did see:
Clear
gin. Beefeater. You so good; want a glass?'
  'Sure. It's tea-time. Right: '
  'Is gin time.' said Etty. Found two dusty glasses on the
sideboard
with hearts and spades printed on them. `Just a touch. right?'
She
unscrewed the bottle and poured them each a small measure. 'What
you brought. Shirts? You want them real quick?'
  'No. no hurry. There's a pair of pants.'
  'Pants%'
  'Jeans.' He unwrapped the small bundle, threw them to her.
  'They too small for you% These yours%'
  'The Duke's. I just found them.'
  She held them for a moment. stroked the cloth. 'They his okay.
Designer jeans. Real classy. These cost. You found them: '
  'In a closet. At the Loft. I didn't know.'
  Etty put her hand in each pocket.
  'I did that already. There is nothing,' said Dubrovnik.
  'Well. Sometimes people leave things. In pockets.'
  'He did.'
  'Did: The Duke: What he leave then%' She was smiling in-
differently, sipping her gin, the jeans tumbled before her on the
table.
'Ten dollars.'
  'He had the smallest waist, longest legs, that Duke.'
  'You got someone they fit% No good for me. Keep them. you would
like to: '
  'Sure. I know someone.' She touched the jeans with a curious
gesture. half affectionate. half cautious. 'Touchin' them. So
strange.
Like he's close by. Like he could walk in that door.' She
withdrew
her hand. 'Is all gone. The wild nights. Minty's. You see
Minty's_
now% A Vietnam place. all with lanterns and dragons.'
  'Etty. you ever know if Duke had a camera%'
  She looked up at him slowly. eyes half closed, raised her
glass.
sipped her gin. smiled, head to one side. 'I never see no camera.
Never did see the Duke but bare assed.'
  'A Polaroid% I'm thinking to myself maybe that he had one.'
  Etty shook her head slowly. 'I never did see. Why you ask%'
  Dubrovnik looked across the room at Sabrina worrying her hair.
Etty caught the look. said suddenly, 'Sabrina. You scat now.'
  'I'm doin' my plaits. You see me? Real clear%'
  'I see you. Do 'em some other place. you scat gal or I make you
hurry.'
  'My beads! My mirror! Don't mess up my beads for chrissakes.'
  'I mess you all up. you don't get out of here, so help me.
Scat!'
  When Sabrina had left the room. slamming the door hard behind
her, Etty turned to Dubrovnik.
  'So. What you want to say you didn't want to say in front of
my
Sabrina: '
  'In these pockets. I find ten dollars. right: '
  'You say so.'
  'There was a photograph. In the back pocket.'
  Etty raised her glass. 'So: '
  'It was very bad. A not-nice photograph, you know% Two
children. Black children.'
  Etty looked vaguely around her cluttered room. her eyes came
slowly back to him. 'What so bad% You goin' to tell me%'
  'They were little. Maybe nine years old. . . ten. Naked. Tied
on
a bed.'
'You think he made this picture: '
'I don't know. That's why I ask you about a camera. you see.'
  'I never saw no camera. Never at Minty's. Not ever there.'
  'I wondered.' Dubrovnik shrugged. finished his gin.
  Etty fisted a hand. rubbed her nose hard. 'One day he said to
?þlinty. and I recall clear. he said, "One day. Minty. I going
to do
something real bad. So bad these kids here will stomp me to
death." ' She drained her glass. put it on the table. 'I ain't
never
forget. He was crazy. Death crazy. No god in that man's soul, no
good. '
  'Sometimes he was fine.' said Dubrovnik. `I remember sometimes
when he was okay. My fault for bringing him to Minty's in the
first
place. He wanted to look around. . '
  'Caught his fancy. I reckon. Hoomiliation, eh% And now what you
think: He into kiddie-porn or something. that it: '
  `Maybe he bought it: Hollywood Boulevard is full of places for
that. Maybe he just bought himself some photographs.'
  'They was nine or ten. you say? The kids: '
  'About.'
  Etty got up, screwed the top onto the gin bottle. picked up the
jeans and threw them into a chair. 'Shit,' she said. `I never saw
no
camera. He never said.'
  'He maybe had a place of his own. Did he ever tell you% Like
a
room% A long way From his home?'
  `He never did say.'
  'Because they can't find his diary for a whole year.19 i 9. .
. and
almost half of '80. . . all the pages torn out. Maybe he had a
secret
place, a room somewhere.'
  `We didn't do so much yakkin', you understand? At Minty's it
was
action. Not jest talking. Oh. sure. sometimes, before the coke
really
got to him. before the drink got to the coke. sometimes, now and
a gin, we'd talk. . . a while. No great deal, I don't remember
no room,
no private place he ever said about. I only knows your place, and
when to give you a call come collect. Remember? Minty would say.
"Get Mr Boris right smart. . . this gone on too long." So we'd
call
you up on Whitecrest. Those days. remember%'
  'I remember.' said Dubrovnik, thumping his knee with the flat
of
his hand. 'Most times I blame myself.'
  'Is a fool born every day, so they say.' said Etty. 'Too late
now to fret.'

  'I'm going away for a while. Maybe six months. eight. I can't
be þ Sabrina carried her box of beads. the comb. the mirror back
to
so sure yet,' said Dubrovnik. þ the seat in the window where she
had been originally. 'It's only half
  Etty sat in a chair at the end of the table. 'I got to remember
to ! done. I can't see. . .'
sit. I stand so long. I got feet problems. Where you goin'?' `You
look like you was covered in rats'-tails is what,' said Etty.
  'Brazil.' 'Rats'-tails.' She suddenly put her hand to her face.
turned slowly
  Etty was pleating a small corner of the tablecloth. 'I don't
exactly to Dubrovnik. 'Rats! I remember something. Something Duke
said
recall this Brazil,' she said. sometimes. He had a friend. . .
you know her: Very good friend he
  'South. Way south.' said. Wasn't rats. . . somethin' like that.
You know anyone called
  'Like after Mexico. . . %' Mouse: '
  'Like after Mexico. Well after.'
  'And the widder. Your friend. She goin' on this trip%' '
  'She has children like you do, Etty. Schools. so on. No. she
stays here.'
  Etty pressed the fiat of her hand over the creases she had made
in the cloth. 'So she stays. Is lonesome. And the Loft on
Whitecrest%
You closin' up that pretty big room? Be all ripped out if you do.
afore
you get back. Leave it empty they just strip it bare.'
  'I think maybe I'll rent it. A man I know in New York. Painter.
He will care for it. You think I should tell him you will wash
his
shirts like you did for me?'
  'I ain't no washer-woman. I do for you because I like you.
Right%
I don't wash for no strangers. I got kids. I got. when he home
from
San Diego. a man. Hallelujah!' She got up. pushed the hair from
her
forehead. stared into the darkening light of the day.
  'I got enough.' she said.
  'I was asking only.'
  'I was saying only.' she said. `Was real sweet of you bringing
that
bottle. A real sweet ladee. Ain't so many of those floating about
this
place. . '
  Dubrovnik got to his feet. tucked his shirt into the belt of
his pants.
'I better get going. It is almost dark.'
  'Yep. you git, afore dark. This ain't the best neighbourhood
to be
alone come the dark.'
  The door opened. Sabrina put her head round. 'Hey% It's too
dark
now to see in that room. I come in here: You finished: '
  'You come. We finished. Sweet Christ!' said Etty looking at her
daughter. 'Your head is just terrible!' What you doin' this
reggae-
thing for: You look plumb crazy. . '

chapter 11.
Sunday at Alice's

Pale sunlight glimmered through the smog, suffusing the kitchen
with soft light. translucent as watered milk. Alice weighed out
spaghetti. snapped the bundle into manageable lengths, rummaged
in the table drawer for a can opener: Clemency watching her.
leaning in the doorway.
  `Do you remember where the can opener is% It always lived in
this
drawer and now it can't be found. At least, by me.'
  Clemency eased away from the door. wandered into the kitchen.
opened a drawer under the sink: laid the opener on the table.
  'Don't you simply loathe Sundays%' she said.
  'Loathe them.' said Alice. opening a can of tomatoes.
  'I don't know why we have to have them.'
  'Day of rest. People work hard all week. Some people want to
go
to Church. . . lie in bed with the Sunday paper. They're useful.'
  'I get so depressed on Sunday. It feels as if everything was
closed
up and locked away, one can't reach people.'
  'Well, that's a bit silly. darling. You still can. Pick up a
telephone.'
  'Some people go out of town on Sunday. To the mountains,
sometimes to the ocean.'
  'Well we can't today because Sybil is coming for lunch, sorry.'
  'It's all right. Is that what you are doing: cooking lunch: '
  'I am preparing to cook lunch. Spaghetti and tomato sauce, ice
cream after, that do: '
  'It has to. I suppose,' said Clemency with a tight smile. 'It's
all you
can cook. '
  One day I'll brain her, thought Alice. I'll take a bottle and
hit her.
Instead she said. 'I'm quite good at boeuf stroganof  . . you
said so
yourself. '
  'And boiled eggs. Do you know why all the eggs in America are
white: Never brown%'
  'No. I don't.' She poured the tomatoes into a pan. set them
aside.
Why:.
  `So that they can be candled.'
  `So that they can be what? Candled? I never heard the word.'
  'I thought you wouldn't have. Alan Spinner Junior told me. It's
so that the jews can hold a candle behind them to see if they are
fertilized or not.'
  'I see. A lighted candle?'
  'Of course. It shows up everything in the egg. I mean if there
was
anything funny.'
  'I'm very grateful for the information.'
  A sudden blast of music from Hope's room was turned down
instantly.
  'What's Hope doing? Apart from playing records?'
  'Nothing. She hates Sundays too. She's read the comic section
already. Now she's fiddling with her ladybird bracelet. It's too
large.'
  'Clem darling. You could give me a hand if you liked. Wash up
the coffee cups from breakfast: And check we have clean knives
and
forks - we'll be four.'
  Clemency sighed, took down an apron, turned on taps. clattered
china. 'You remember, last week. I told you what I thought about
. . . you know. . . Jonathan Pool: '
  Alice set out salt, sugar. dried basil. garlic. chopped onion.
`I can't
hear you. The water's running.'
  Clemency twisted taps. 'About Jonathan Pool: I said.'
  'What about him: '
  'Well. you remember after your party-thing that evening. Last
week. In my room: '
  'Oh yes. Yes I do. Darling. you are in my way, duck. I want the
strainer.'
  'I'll get it.' Clemency reached up. handed her the strainer.
  'What about Jonathan Pool: '
  'I've changed my mind.'
'I see. where the hell is the pepper-mill: '
  'You're not listening to a word I say.'
  'I am, Clem. I really am. I am also trying to get some kind of
a
lunch prepared so that when Sybil arrives I'm not stuck in this
bloody kitchen all the time.'
  'Well. it's only that I took your advice. He's too old for me.'
  'Ah ha. You think he is: Very good-looking. . . and that super
voice: I'll dry the cups, hand them to me.,
  'Well. if he's going to be fifty or something grisly when I'm
only
twenty, or whatever you said. It seems silly. Alan Spinner Junior
agrees. I asked him.'
  'You like Alan Spinner Junior: '
  Clemency shrugged. A shoulder strap of the apron slid down her
arm. she pulled it back. 'Okayish. He's not brash. Also he thinks
my
name is terribly romantic.'
  'A very good point, I'd say. in his favour.'
  'That's what I thought. It shows a certain amount of taste.
don't
you think: '
  'Perfect.'
  'He's sixteen. going on seventeen.'
  'You'll have things in common. won't you%'
  'I was absolutely dreading that you'd say he was "more suit-
able".'
  'Were you now. Give me the saucers. just rinse them under the
cold tap.'
  'It's the sort of maddening remark that grown-ups make.
Patronising.'
  'No. I'm certain that you know your own mind.'
  'Oh I do. But I get so furious. you know: Being patronised like
that. His father is in General Motors.'
  'How interesting! General Motors! What an exhilarating thing
to
be a part of. A place full of imagination. or the chances to show
imagination. What exactly does he do in General Motors. do you
know: ' With a mild score behind her she stacked cups and saucers
in a pile. took them to the cupboard above the work-top.
  'I really didn't ask. Something quite important, I'd say. High
up
anyway. I mean he never flies Economy, or anything like that, and
they have cable TV and. what's more, a chauffeur. White. Not a
black.'
'That counts.'
  'Enormously. They've also been to Europe three times. Once to
! Paris. once to Rome and once to Heidelberg. Alan's elder
brother.
  Robbie. is in the army there.'
  'Well travelled, I'd say. Sophisticated.'
  'But of course,' said Clemency. wiping out the sink and
squeezing
  the cloth dry before throwing it on the draining-board. 'He is
  American. So it couldn't be for long. My going out with him.
We
  are just friends. . .'
  'You can always bring him here. darling. Any time. Just let me
  know. '
  Clemency removed the apron. rearranged her pleated skirt. hung
  the apron on a hook behind the door. 'This is not quite
suitable. This
  house. They live where we did before Daddy. . .' She stopped.
  Restarted. 'They have a house on Crescent. Quite lovely.
Beverly
  Hills. Remember: If we still lived in our old house he'd be
just about
  in walking distance. But here. well. . .' She shrugged
Brentwood
  into oblivion with the slightest of gestures. `It's really not
suitable.
  I mean. we only have that terrible. long room. And our
bedrooms.
  That wouldn't be quite proper, would it? And the place, well.
I mean
  it's awful.'
  'All that I can afford. Sorry darling.' Alice went into the
dining
area. pulled open a drawer under the table with controlled fury.
Laid
out four table mats. arranged the pottery Mexican candle holders.
'Did you check the four knives and forks. Clem? And four dessert
spoons. . . no! eight. . . We have ice cream after.'
  I detest Sundays too. my loathsome little daughter. But you'd
never guess. would you: I don't let it show, try not to anyhow.
There isn't very much of me in you. my little dove: you are all
Daddy. Have you the least idea how much I hate this bloody house?
How I hate the murky light. Having to live by electric lamps all
day
every day. even in the middle of bloody summer% Do you think I
like
that crummy yard out back: That black tree: The coarse grass. the
lack of air. Do you think that I really give a tuppenny bugger
about
spaghetti sauce or your damned pistachio-flavoured ice cream%
Think I don't miss the house we had% The cool. clear rooms. the
humming birds in the canna lilies. the pool. Being able to get
away from you for a while: Do you really think. can it be
possible: that
I have no soul of my own. Miss Sproule: You have no goddamned
soul. Miss Sproule: and that's exactly who you are. Clemency
Sproule. You carry within that slender body of yours a billion
ugly
genes. The Sproules are marching through yocz in hobnailed boots
with their shillelaghs. and you haven't the least idea! You are
an
appalling throwback to some grubbing. treacherous. peasant past
overlaid with elegant Arlington false enamel. You are a fraud,
my
child. Somewhere deep inside you there is an Irish crone
preparing
to set off a bomb: peat fires. peat bogs, potatoes, pottery
pipes,
potheen. Hail Mary Full of Grace The Lord Is With thee. There is
one
great consolation to all this pent-up fury and dislike, my
unsweet
child. and that is that I dislike you almost as much as you
dislike
me, only I try not to let mine show: yours blazes like neon.
  'Clem: Darling: I'm going to pull up my bed, put on a face. Be
an angel and try to remember the knives and the forks aþand the
dessert spoons for the spaghetti. . . I've put the mats out.
We'll need
glasses. I've got a couple of bottles of wine. and the spoons are
for
the spaghetti. remember. Do this for me%'
  'Okay,' said Clemency. with the enthusiasm of someone agreeing
to be lowered head first in a bucket down a well.
  'What are you banging things around for: ' said Hope. drifting
in.
'I could hear you slinging knives about like they were spears or
something.'
  'I have to lay the table for lunch. Sybil Twitt is coming.
Remember. '
  'Goodee. Maybe she'll be able to fix this ladybug bracelet. .
. I
can't.'
  'ladybird.' said Clemy taking a tray of cutlery into the long
room.
  'It's "bug" in America. But everything about America bugs you.
I know.'
'You know so much.'
'Where's Mom: '
  'Mother is in her room. Putting on her face.'
  Hope filled a paper cup from the Lake Arrowhead water-
container. drank. threw it into the trash bin. 'Wouldn't it be
nice
if we had a cat: A dear little cat. Or maybe a dog. I wouldn't
mind
a dog. would you: '
  'They make messes.' said Clemency, coming back into the clutter
of the kitchen.
  'It'd be more homey. though. right% This place just isn't like
a
home.'
  Clemency set two glasses on the tray. a bowl of ready-to-use
Parmesan, a carton of 'farm-fresh cream'. 'We won't be here long
enough for it to be a home. We'll go a-wandering again. You see.'
  'Where to% Where will we wander%' said Hope sticking her finger
into the pan of tomatoes. 'Jeeze! is this sour! Jimminy-jim-jam.
. .'
  'It's not cooked yet. Don't stick your finger in things. It's
not
hygienic. She'll have a fit if she sees you do that.'
  `Who.' said Hope. 'is she%'
  `The cat's mother.' said Clemency and took the tray to the
dining-
table.

  Alice smoothed the bottom sheet. tucked in the edges. dragged
up the top sheet. pulled the cheap candlewick cover over the bed.
sat at her dressing-table. brushed the hair back from her face.
piled
it on top of her head. turned left and right. regarding her own
profile
with care. Signs of a downward pull to the mouth? Eyes creased.
just a little. at the corners: Throat showing tendons? Age?
  This messy little room: this ugly. dark house. the whole
stinking
place. Whose fault. I ask myself. Trace it back to the beginning.
. .
if you can bear to. London. Hugo's American publisher. Alvin
Plumb.
  Smooth, seal-sleek. plump. over-manicured. A man who had
dragged himself to power over the uncountable corpses of his
rivals
without so much as snagging a fingernail. Soft-speaking.
steel-eyed.
adoring, even worshipping, his Author.
  As well he might. For Hugo had made Plumb Inc. a modest
fortune over the years.
  Alvin J. Plumb. Long feet in handmade shoes. suits by Huntsman.
suites at the Savoy, haircuts at Trumper's, scents by Givenchy
or
Floris, depending on mood. taking his snuff with the elegance and
disdain of a Regency fop which he so well resembled: his American
  accent, whatever it once had been. carefully smothered by a
false
  eaton English. only occasionally betrayed by a careless vowel.
  He disliked speaking of Money. Sales. Percentages or Profit,
the
  word Agent never crossed his lips. nor did one ever cross his
path
  if he could possibly help it. He had long ago decided that
these things
  smacked of Trade. and a Tradesman was not what he wished to be.
It was obvious, to those very few who knew him well. that he had
made desperate. but never despairing. efforts to eradicate his
New
Jersey background, plus the parents who had struggled. on a
modest
teaching salary, to assist him in his ascent to glory. The feat
was
astonishing - and could have been impressive. had he chosen his
cuff links with more care. As it was. his Lanvin shirts and
Hunts-
man's jackets sagged at the cuff with cartwheels of gold, silver.
platinum, onyx or jade. As Hugo had once said. Alvin's Achilles'
heel was. paradoxically, on his wrist.
  But he was lethally persuasive.
  'You have been in England too long. Hugo my dear fellow. They
has,ùe grown "used" to you, and you know very well that that
isfatal
in England. It is time to move on. to go elsewhere and astonish:
seek
a new setting for the jewel of a writer that you are; find a new
dimension. England is perfect for the predictable: the
unpredictable
worries them, they dislike it intensely, it alarms them. The
ornate,
the baroque. the brilliant. the gold and the silver make them un-
comfortable. They really prefer everything to be subdued. quiet,
smothered in layers of dark-oak varnish. Do you follow me: And
here you offer me, my wondrous writer, a quite astonishing
outline
and you ask my opinion. This outline which I hold in my hand. The
Golden In mi,grunts, is. in a word. breathtaking! You must write
it.
and you must write it immediately. Go and do it, Hugo! I implore
you!
  'Pack up your family and go away with them to where this
extraordinary phenomenon took place. Los Angeles. California.
Live there. become part of it, smell it. sense. hear. touch it.
Search
out the ageing witnesses to that amazing epoch. Some still
survive
in Homes; drab apartments. modest villas. Question. revive
memories. and I promise you that you will be astonished by. shall
I say: the artefacts which will tumble into your hands while you
dig in the desert soil. It is quite extraordinary to know that
in the early forties, just as the world was reeling into carnage,
much of the
brilliance which had been European culture was supping its
corn-flakes and living in rented houses in that hideous place.
  'Driven out by the war, by apathy. by ideals. by the lure of
riches.
by a thousand things, there they all were, your Golden
Immigrants.
in one small. one could almost say remote. area. as far away from
Europe as they could possibly get: Brecht, Well. the planns,
Auden
and Isherwood. Feuchtwanger, Stravinski. countless others. . .
Remember also the other "creators". Who worked for the cinema
and who so influenced the entire world! One thinks of Garbo
first,
of course. . . but there was also Nazi mova! Did you know that
Elinor
elynn even worked there once: And Dietrich. the Hitchcocks. the
Laughtons. Lubitsch. Chaplin. One's head reels. All Europe
exported
its magic and lustre to that frightful suburb on the edge of the
Pacific. For a time it bloomed like a desert flower after rain.
and then,
as suddenly, it died. For when the war was won it fragmented: the
drift back began, the decade was over. Write it!
  `Now, I have most useful introductions that I shall give you.
There
is an extraordinary woman. whom I adore. Irina Miratova. who
still
lives there and knew it all intimately. Her salon was considered
the
most elegant and erudite. Her "teas" were famous! Not to be
invited
was Social Disaster! She still sits there: alone with her
memories. Go
and awaken her! Consider it. Hugo. A year to research; more if
you
wish. A year to write: longer if you have to. It is something you
must
not resist. England is no place for you today. It no longer needs
the
work you offer. it much prefers the Lower Orders; sombre stories
of
North Country Life, or the drear banalities of suburbia. English
writers today. in the main. have had no classical education what-
soever; thus their vocabulary is appallingly limited. and their
characters speak in an ugly tribal language. They have spotty
backs, varicose veins and coarse hands. It is drear, sear. real
and
wretched. Envy, anger, class hatred, resentment. malice and for-
nication. Nlagic is not in demand. elegance is suspect. So come
to
America. where you have always been more appreciated than in
your own country. It might amuse you to know that long before
England knew who Beatrix Potter was we were reading her with
devotion and awe! America is not as backward and new as she
sometimes might appear. so come to her! She awaits you with open
arms. . .' - he paused to smooth a perfect lapel - '. . and an
irresistible advance! Go West. young man! Every one of your
Golden
Immigrants had to do that, why not you%'
  And so we came West. We came to this servant-girls' paradise.
And found it to be exactly, and precisely. that.
  God rot Alvin J. Plumb.
  Her hands slipped gently down her face. A caressing. She let
them
rest in her lap. Her hair. released. cascaded about her
shoulders. She
tossed it back. stretched her throat. took a lipstick. lined her
lips.
pressed them together.
  All right. It was all. almost. marvellously all right: at
first. like
the dawn of a perfect picnic-day morning.
  No hint of the storm ahead.
  A pleasant house. White. cool, Spanish (Hispanic influence, the
agent had said), above the city. which wavered in a haze of heat,
smog and bleary sun below. A swimming pool of sumptuous size.
with a Japanese gardener who cleaned it. set out the pool-side
chairs
and tables. and. when he had time to spare. planted Californian
ivy
on every inch of crumbled land. To prevent erosion, he said.
  Unaware, as I was, that the erosion would not start on his
modest
plot but within the house. Not within the earth. but within our
lives.
Mine. Hugo's. Ours.
  And there was Jupiter: laughing. willing, roaring up to join
us
every morning in her bright pink Chevvy. Jupiter. who adored the
girls. 'Oh! they so cute!'. who cooked up corn-bread. spare-ribs
and
anything else we wanted. Singing joyful hymns. Oh Christ! At
first
it was all perfect.
  The parties which never ceased. A different place each evening.
New people. faces made familiar by television or the cinema or
the
press. All mainstream stuff: and we were part of it. The guests
of
honour.
  'Who was there, Mama: Tell. . . did you see. . . '
  'Kobert Kedford came, and Paul Newman and his pretty wife
were there. . .'
  'Kobert Kedford!'
  'Wowie!.
  'And there were agents. people you wouldn't know: some you
should never know. . .'
  'Don't you feel it throb: ' asked an intense woman of fifty,
roped
in mexican beads and lumps of turquoise. 'Feel the pulse: Isn't
it just
the greatest, most on going place you have ever known: So alive.
vital. Don't you feel the whole place trembling with creativity:
'
  Well, frankly. no. Not really. But it felt good on three
martinis and
an empty stomach. And the San Andreas Fault just below.
  Pulsing creativity. That was the impression. Hard to tell. at
first.
in those early months. that the whole damned set-up was as false
as the people themselves. Nothing but a walk through the Fairy
Grotto. Plaster and cardboard and rented gnomes: plus dwarfs.
  But we didn't know that right away. I didn't, anyway. Saw the
dwarfs but thought that they were a little larger than life,
because
everything around them was. And the brunches. The dreadful
brunches that Peter Clivden gave in that dank house up a danker
canyon. His teeth slipping when he laughed, the neatly knotted
silk
ascot at his wrinkled throat, his blazer bright with someone
else's
regimental buttons, the aproned maids scuttling about like black
beetles bearing silver dishes of. what he called. 'tid bits'. Tit
bits was
what they were: vile little things of watery olives and imported
cheese. But 'tit' was out. That was rude. And at the plastic-
upholstered bar his truck driver pouring drinks like Niagara. Oh.
sweet Heaven! Just to remember how easily we were impressed
then. How quickly Hugo took to the waters and swam. And drank.
Like a fish.
  I suppose that the main thing we salvaged from the whole clutch
of those early days was Irina Miratova. A divine saviour at the
hideous brunches. Tall. calm, solid, serene and funny. Sometimes.
  'She's a spy. darlings, I warn you!' Clivden had hissed. 'Don't
mention anything you don't want Moscow to know tomorrow!' and
he had covered his mouth while he laughed. to prevent one seeing
a collapsing set of teeth.
  The frenzy had lasted until they had used us up. It took a
month
or two. 'After three weeks.' Sybil Witt had said. 'you quit and
go
East. If you don't they'll start asking you when you are going
back
to Europe. If you stay on they'll get bored with you, and be shit
scared you're in competition and want someone's job.'
  'Hugo is researching a book. He isn't in competition.'
  'He's pretty. So are you. Competition in this town isn't just
business: it's bed. Watch out.'
  But we settled down. Oh. tell me that we settled down% What
happened to us all: Trips to the beach. to the mountains, out on
someone's yacht to Catalina. journeys up to Big Sur, San
Francisco.
Las Vegas. . . days at Irina's crazy house, Hugo with notebooks
and
recorders, researching. reading, working. Drifting away from me.
unaware. Perhaps we were both unaware. I filled in the days. with
a sense of guilt that I should be doing such a thing. Filling in
a day.
Getting rid of a day. Killing time. Killing bloody days of my
time. My
own life. Lunches 'girls only', at La Scala or the Polo Lounge.
Days
which suddenly seemed to stretch on for ever. like taut elastic
which. when released from tension. snapped back and numbed my
fingers. Numbness grew. Eternal sun, smog. the same voices. the
same faces. Boredom. boredom, less and less of Hugo. Less and
less
of my golden boy, who had found other places in which to play;
places I couldn't go, where he, frankly. didn't want me to go.
Places
with strange people. where the drinks flowed and everyone knew
that coke didn't come in a bottle labelled 'Coca Cola'.
Gradually, oh
so gradually, I began to lose him. The white Maserati. his
idiotic
white velvet cap. fair hair streaming in the wind. his laughter
rising,
his restlessness increasing. his work lessening. Corruption
biting in
like verdigris.
  'Hugo. You're on coke.'
  'Everyone's on coke. So what: '
  'You'll get hooked.'
  'I am hooked. It raises one's comprehension to a higher level.
Increases my perception.'
  'You talk like a bloody teenager.'
  'You talk like a nag. A fucking scold. Know what they did with
scolds in days gone by: Stuck their heads in an iron helmet.'
  'It's all going wrong. Stop, please. My dearest love, stop.'
  'It's been going wrong for a while. You didn't notice.'
  'I noticed.'

  She brushed her hair until it shone like corn-stalks, pulled
on a
pair of jeans, buttoned herself into a crisp. clean shirt only
half aware. and not really caring now. that it had once belonged
to him.
rolled up the sleeves. slung a belt through the belt loops of the
jeans.
pushed feet into heel-trodden espadrilles.
  Somewhere in the house David Bowie at low pitch: a sudden cry
of pleasure from Hope. the slamming of a door: the house was
suddenly still. silent. She stood before the pulled-up bed, the
cheap
candlewick cover.

  'I noticed. I'm not made of metal.'
  She had reached for him, touched him: expert hands caressing.
lips whispering, he had moved away. as if she was soliciting:
stood
across the big white room. naked, tall, his back to her.
  'I can't,' he had said.
  'Can't.'
  'Don't try. Don't try. It's gone.'
  She sat up in the great bed, breasts absurdly covered by
crossed
arms in sudden, acute embarrassment. `What has gone: What: '
  'I can't do it with you. I don't want it. Nothing happens.'
  'Nothing happens%' A parrot cry of incomprehension.
  'Fuck nothing. You can see. Look! I don't have to spell it out,
do
I: You can see. You don't want me to go any further, do you% Do
you: '
  'Yes! Spell it out for Christ's sake! What's wrong: What's
happened to us: '
  He stood still, a silhouette against the early morning light.
'I don't
want you.'
  She had slid down into the bed, head against the quilted head-
board.
  'And don't cry about it. I can't take weeping women. you know
that. It's happened, it's done. I can't pretend. One can't
pretend sex.
A man can't. Easier for a woman. . . they writhe about and groan
and never have an orgasm and no one is the wiser. But not a man.
So leave it. leave me alone. Don't humiliate ourselves any more
than we have.'

  She took a box of mascara. pencilled her lashes, squinting into
the spotty mirror above the wash-bowl.
  .þlncþ tlint iþþns tlint.

  'Is there someone else: ' she had said without originality.
Odd.
how in desperate situations one speaks in the banalities of a bad
script. 'If there is someone else I can cope. . . I'd try to cope
that is.
But if it's just sniffing bloody white powder. . .'
  'It's not just sniffing bloody white powder. But I like the
heights.
I like getting dizzy, okay: ' He had pulled on a dressing gown.
'And
for good measure I'll let you into a secret. want me to? Nigger
ladies. '
As he went to the bathroom he had called back to her hunched
figure in the wide bed. 'They smell good. Sweet. rich, moist.
Like
plumcake. with a hint of garlic. Nigger ladies do.'

  She closed the mascara box. The fall of the House of Arlington.
All fall down.
  And I wept all over poor Dubrovnik.
  Boris Kragujevac. Where did we all first meet: At Irina's. In
that crazy wooden palace on the cliffs.
  'All my refugees!' she had said, arms wide in welcome. 'Kragu-
jevac is brilliant. Do not shake your head in mock modesty.
Boris.
Brilliant! He makes quite extraordinary films. He has a
passionate
political conscience which he translates to the screen with fury.
This
great, quiet man. . . Hugo: Your cup is quite empty, let me
refill
it...'
  And he was quiet, and gentle as only really strong men can be:
those brilliant eyes, observing. missing nothing. A little
shabby:
clothes of no consequence to him. Hugo and he. side by side in
that
vast. ugly room, looked so incredibly strange. The great body in
a
shaggy jacket. worn jeans. scuffed boots. Hugo slender, whippy
as
a willow wand: elegant. white. lithe. It was pretty obvious that
he
adored Irina: liked Hugo. and was very aware. behind the dark
lashes of those extraordinary eyes. of me. And Hugo brought him
home for Christmas. Home! God! But we did our best. 'For the
children.' An enormous tree. red. yellow. blue and white flashing
lights. wreaths of glittering tinsel, gifts in a hundred
different wrap-
pings. red and white shining baubles. frost-sprayed. the tree
standing in the California sun kidding none of us. Except perhaps
Jupiter.
who wept with pleasure.

  'Kragujevac is coming to spend the day with us. I asked him.
So
don't complain.'
  `I haven't complained. Won't.'
  'The children will like him. He's alone in some murky Loft down
at the ocean. We must share our good fortune. don't you think:
'
  Good fortune: That had gone long ago. But the children did like
the
man. and called him Dubrovnik, and he was wise and kind and funny
with them. and they laughed. The only honest laughter of the day.
  In the evening. Oh Christ, the evening. The careful
manipulation of
the evening: of playing a game, a careful, watchful game, with
Hugo.
  'My wife. you know, gentle though she may appear to you to be
at first meeting, is. if the truth be known, quite viciously
cruel.'
  'Not in the least bit cruel. I'm adorable! Easy, understanding.
Don't believe him.'
  'Do believe him! She is convinced that when I grow up I shall
have
a. . . silicone nose! Now what do you make of that remark.
Dubrovnik. eh: Cruel%'
  'Hugo darling! Not true! Perhaps a little too strong. . . your
brandy: '
  'Piss off. Answer me. Dubrovnik. That is a cruel remark or not:
You think that she is right, or that she is wrong: '
  Dubrovnik had looked slowly from one of us to the other. Hugo
standing before the fire. I sitting calmly; controlled. smiling
a fixed
adoring smile. My amusing husband.
  'Hugo. I will reply, so: Will you ever grow up: '
  'Ah ha! You think that I won't% Very clever. Eternal Peter Pan
. . . she is my little Tinkerbell. . . tinkle! tinkle! tinkle!
a dancing light
warning me of danger: So. I'll never grow up you think? Then I
shall
never have a silicone nose.'
  'I do not say you will not grow up. I ask you if you think that
you
will%'
  'How can I tell: Did you know that, in fact, my wife is a
General's
daughter! Comes from a long. long line of soldiers. Very strong-
minded. Pukka and correct. doesn't approve of me at all. Do you%
Strict disciplinarians.' Suddenly he had giggled like an idiot
youth,
fair hair tumbled across his brow. hand unsteady with the over-
charged brandy glass. raised it slowly and drank. Watching me.
  'Mom! Mommie!' Hope called from the corridor. 'Think she's
here. Sybil's here. A car's just turned into the driveway.'

  'Strict disciplinarians.' Hugo had said. 'With no silicone
noses!'
  'You must take care, Hugo. Los Angeles is easy. I know. But be
watchful. You get arrested maybe. If you have that stuff around.
If
they search you. you go to prison. Not so good for your wife, for
the
children. not so good for you too. Big reputation? Right?'
  'They won't catch me! Know what I'd do: What I'd do if they
chased me% The Drug Squad, whatever it is. . . know what I'd do%
I tell you. my old Slavic friend, I would slam that Maserati of
mine
right into a truck! Wham! Bang! Explode! Do it quick. No second
thoughts. That's the thing. Dubrovnik! No second thoughts. Out
like
a light. Explode! Deliberate explosion of one silicone nose!
That's
how I'll go.'
  In silence, a silence I hear now. he went to the drink table.
Dubrovnik looked at me, I can see his eyes. He made a move
towards
me with his hand. Of comfort. Just as Hugo turned back towards
us. a bottle in his hand. 'Explosion! Then you'd be free of me,
Alice!
What a relief that would be! Tinkle! tinkle! tinkle!'

  'Mommie!' Hope pushed open the bedroom door. 'You coming?
It's Syb. . . she's here. right here.'
  Alice straightened up from the wash-bowl over which she had
bent. head bowed.
  'Mom! Mommie: You all right% Is something wrong? You okay%'
  'I'm fine. Really fine. The. . . plug-hole thing. Got blocked.
I was
fiddling.'
  'Well. She's arrived. Sybil. she's brought a huge package of
junk
for you. she says.'
  'I'm on my way. right this minute. darling.' said Alice.

  'Well what's wrong with the bracelet: It's cute. It's as cute
as
anything I've seen.' said Sybil. pushing her dish of ice cream
aside.
  Hope swung her wrist. 'See: Too large. I know what to do. if
you
could do it. . .'
  'Hoppy, I get to dance and sing but I'm no mechanic. Show me
again.'
  'See? There is a ladybug. then a daisy flower. then another
ladybug and so on, all the way around. The one Daddy gave me was
the same. and it was too large. but it was my most precious
thing.
and he kinda fixed it so it fitted real good. He cut one ladybug
off,
so there were just two daisy heads together. right% And that made
it smaller. So it fitted.'
  `My head reels with the complications! You want me to remove
one ladybug and then join it all up again. With two daisy heads
together? Right? I got it?'
  'Absolutely. It's on elastic. so if I got some scissors. . .'
  `Hoppy my dear. I have a heart of gold and fingers like
bananas.
I couldn't do it. it is just not my plier. Don't you have some
beau
who could fix it? Some real bright guy with good eyesight and
nimble fingers?'
  Hope shrugged. 'Well. maybe. I could ask Kenny Aller. he's
always fixing his car. . .'
  `Well you do that. Ask a real mechanic.'
  'Irina gave me this one. Wasn't it just amazing? She found it
in
some store down in the Palisades, the last one! I was so
thrilled. Of
course it isn't quite the same as the real one. Daddy's one. but
it's
great to have it. He just made it very personal. you know?'
  `Got you. I know.'
  'Honestly,' said Clemency stacking up the ice cream plates.
'The
fuss you make about a tacky little plastic bracelet from Taiwan.
Really. You'd think it was gold or something.'
  `It is to me.' said Hope quickly. 'Gold. So just you shut up.'
  Alice came in from the kitchen with a tray of coffee: set it
on the
half cleared table. 'Stop bickering. you two. Sunday tempers.
Just
stop. Hoppy. give Clem a hand with clearing, Sybil and I have
work
to do, so be sweet to me. Someone will fix your bracelet. . . if
that's
what the snarling is all about. . .'
  'Ask your beau.' said Sybil taking a cup of coffee and sitting
in
one of the crushed armchairs.
  'He's seventeen. He's not my beau, for heaven's sake! Just a
nice
guy. He wears his hair like Elvis. y'know? All greasy.'
  'Well get on with things,' said Alice.
  'Clem said it was made in Taiwan. Like it didn't matter.'
  'Get out, the pair of you. and don't slam doors. . .'
  Sybil was sorting through costume-sketches spread on the coffee
  table. 'This is the one. Number six. I'm wild about it. You
really do
  have the best eye. such a line. Alice Arlington. . . I want it
to be this
  one, and we can use the lace.'
  'Must we?' Alice sat opposite her. coffee cup in hand, stirring
idly.
  'We must. I have this great feeling for lace. I want to come
down
  that staircase but foaming! Lace everywhere. . . you simply
have to
  find a way to smother me in the stuff. It's right for the
number and
  I'll look divine. Nothing is more flattering to an ageing face
than a
  haze of beautiful lace. and I have loads, but loads, of it. .
. we must
  use it, honey.'
  Alice picked up a handful which had tumbled to the floor.
'Where
did you get it?'
  `Garage sale. Sherman Oaks. Lying in a trunk, no one wanted it.
  I got the whole deal for five bucks. can you believe? I mean
some
  of it is just glorious. . . and the bridal veil. . . I can't
resist that. . '
  'All different kinds. This bit is Brussels. . .'
  `Sherman Oaks! So strange, these garage sales. I never miss one
  if I can get there. I go all over, you know? It's fascinating
that people.
  when they decide to retire to Miami or some place. just leave
the
  house and sell everything. They take nothing with them, no
roots
  . . . nothing of the past. They kind of reject the past
deliberately and
  start out again all over, in retirement. Crazy. All this stuff
came from
the Old Country. . . they just cut their past away with a razor
blade.
No memories. Therefore rootless.'
  'Perhaps they feel happier like that: no responsibilities. The
past
has debts. '
  Sybil pulled off her knitted woollen pom-pom hat, shook it,
brushed it, set it back on her head. 'Maybe. I'd rather have the
debts
than no past. No roots, I should say.'
  'But you have roots. God almighty. Syb! You have all America.'
  `And all America is rootless. except for the Red Indians. . .
the rest
of us are. one way and another. uprooted from some place else.
That's why I don't understand the deliberate severance. like in
garage sales. . I've seen family photographs, old. brown. faded
things. just left for someone to grab. . . some fag interior
decorator
  . . they swoop on them. . . I mean, mothers and fathers, aunts
and
grandparents. whole family groups, just left lying in boxes, like
junk
. . a whole past rejected. Prague. Dublin, Vienna, Berlin. . .
right on out to the heart of Russia. Abandoned for the delights
of a
  condominium some place in Florida or wherever the hell they
retire
  to. It makes me so mad!'
  'Perhaps people don't want to be reminded of that past.'
  ' Perhaps not. '
  'America is for starting of again. right? A new world. A new
deal,
  a new and a better life. . . perhaps those sepia aunties and
grand-
  parents are haunting reminders of what was? And perhaps what
  was wasn't pleasant.'
  `You could be right. You're so bright, Mrs Arlington. . . I
don't
  know, really I don't. All I do know is that I envy your
bickering
  daughters more than they could ever imagine. They have
inheritance. they have it instinctively, it makes them strong and
  secure, something we don't get here - at least. it isn't
common-
place.'
  'But you have it, don't you? You were born here, it's in your
blood. . .'
  Sybil poured herself another cup of coffee, spooned sugar,
stirred.
'In my blood. How the hell do I know what's in my blood? My
grandparents arrived here, way back, from somewhere in Europe.
Poland I guess. with four kids, my mam was one of them, and two
tin trunks. They had no language that anyone could speak, and
they couldn't speak English. They got stood in line on Ellis
Island
to be searched for ticks and T B and God knows what else. and
when
he was asked his name, my grandfather. kinda understanding but
unable to reply, just pointed to the man in front of him, and so
the
immigration official wrote down his name for our use. With one
nod
of a head. and the stroke of a pen, we were instantly "Karovski".
. .
I don't know what our true name was, I never remembered to
ask. they never bothered to say. . . so I was born Irma Miriam
"Karovski". . . a stolen name. I feel the lack of my real name
way
deep down. I want my roots.'
  'You might hate them if you found them? Possible?'
  'Possible. I'd just like the chance of making my own mind up.'
  `And Sybil Witt? That name?'
  'Oh that! Christ! Can you see Irma Miriam Karovski in lights?'
  'Gertrude Lawrence wasn't all that glamorous a name. or Ethel
Merman. but they didn't do so badly, did they?'
  'I wanted something of my own  Chicer. Know what I mean% I
thought "Sybil Witt" was so Noel Cowardy. get it? Good for my
persona. Something to live up to. Is all.' She leant across the
table
and picked up the sketch of the dress she had chosen. 'I'm going
to
be a knock-out in this. You get the lace fixed. . . remember it's
a
waltz number. . . so the skirt has to be nice and wide. and
frilly as
hell. One, two, three. one. two. three. . . "Waltz me around
a,gain
waltz, around, around, around. The music is dreamy, it's peaches
and cream. So don't let my feet touch the ground. . . ' One. two,
three. . . we start in a sweet way. you see: Very Victorian. .
.
Edwardian: I don't remember. and then it gets wild. . . and I
belt.
Ham Reiner has done a really swell arrangement. . .'
  Hope pushed open the kitchen door. a dishcloth in her hand.
`Was
that you singing. Sybil% It was just great.'
  'It was I. child. . . One. two. three, one, two. three, "I feel
like a
ship on an ocean of joy. . . ''
  'You don't sound like you at all when you sing.'
  'Thanks loads.'
  'It's so pretty. . .' The door swung closed.
  'It was a compliment, of course. But she gets the point
strangely.
I'm not "me" when I'm singing. I'm the "me" I want to be, and I
stop wondering who the hell I really am.'
  Alice collected the coffee cups. stood up. 'How long have we
got?
I mean for the dress: When is the Opening% I forget. . .'
  'Boston. March twenty-third, Philly after. New Haven and then
New York. all being well. April twentieth. Six weeks there, then
London. Paris, Copenhagen. . .'
  'Of course. Sorry. . . I can't remember anything. I feel rather
odd.
Light headed, I don't know. Something.'
  'What sort of something? Sunday Blues? More than that%'
  'More than that. Like driftwood. Stuck high on the beach. . .
the
tide pulling out. Me stranded.'
  Sybil opened her canvas bag, found a cigarette, lit it. Alice
carried
cups to the kitchen.
  'You are angels! Both of you. . .' The door shut, cutting off
the
compliments.
  Sybil hunched up. blew cigarette smoke into the fireplace,
watched it drag away, swirl up. spread. fade.
  Alice returned. the banging door announcing her. `They're
really
very good - it's all done. I wish I wasn't such a bitch.'
  'The sweetest-tempered mother I ever saw.'
  'I try to be. The strain nearly kills me.'
  'About driftwood.' said Sybil. `and the tide going out.
Explain.'
  'Oh. . .' Alice sat opposite her, legs spread. 'Oh, I don't
know. . .
I do know, of course I know. Everyone leaving suddenly. End of
the
holidays. . . You. Dubrovnik off to his Amazon. Nettles.
Jonathan.
No one left.'
  'Jonathan was never a very great part of your life. was he? Or
was
he%'
  `No. Not a great part. But always there. If I needed him.'
  'A bastion: '
  'I can't define a bastion. Maybe.'
  'No love though? I mean on your part. You were never in love
with him. right%'
  Alice reached across and took her cigarette, drew on it. gave
it
back. shook her head. `No. Never in love. I used him as insurance
cover. no more. . . Dubrovnik is something else.'
  'He's as tie-down-able as a bison. You had no hopes of
Dubrovnik,
for God's sake%'
  'In some mad way I did. Syb. I did. I don't know why.'
  `He is strictly a wanderer. I know. I've been married twice.
I've
been Mrs O'Conner and Mrs Ciapellino. Both times I was utterly
convinced it was the Real Thing. It never was. Never. So I sing
and
I dance and they all think I'm happy as a grig. Which I am.
Alone.'
  'Alone is what terrifies me. I dread Alone.'
  'You have the children.'
  'Alone.'
  'Come East. Come to New York. They'll eat you all up. Who wants
this place? New York is alive. you get flights in daily from all
over.
fresh freight of new faces. . . you can't be alone in New York.'
  'The songs tell one differently.'
  'Forget the songs. Come on East. . . leave this dump. It was
fun
once. But now. . '
  'I can't. Leave the shop? The children are settled. at last.
in decent
schools. I have work on hand. I can't leave. start all over
again.'
  'You could. Screw the schools. Who's most important? You or
your children at this very moment%'
  Alice pulled off an espadrille. tried to pull up the trodden
heel-
canvas. 'The children. I guess. Then the shop.'
  'Westwooþ Village won't actually fall apart at the seams if you
pull out. you know.'
  'I'm just starting a customer-relationship. . . it's
important.'
  `So is þiþmen's Lþeþr þþiisþ. þ'he already "found" you. right%
A big spread, "A Touch of Tweed" sþr some suCh headline, I
forget. . .'
  ' "Touch of (Classicþ Tweed" it was. . . yes, that was nice.
They
were very bitchy.'
  `In New York they'll gobble you all up. You see if I'm wrong.
You'll be part of the crowd, the W aND crowd. . . Andy Warhol.
þ:anca Jagger, G:oria þanderbilt. all the little Furstenbergs,
Calvin
Klein. . . the mainstream. the Beautiful people. Maybe they're
a
little indigestible as a steady diet. but you can choose the
meals you
take. . . see what I mean :
  'They'll kill me. Competition. Would you say?'
  'Go fight. You can do it!'
  'þI Sybil Sata! Get thee behind me. . .
  'Think! The best tab:e at þlailþe's. blowing kisses to
Baryshnikov
at þoe Allen's. It could all be yours.'
  'And who would pick up the check?'
  'I'd þe t^ere, I'd be de:þ-^sother. You could do all my robes
for the
show. not just this one. . . I'm not immodest. honey. but I'm not
unknown.' Sybil threw her cigarette into the dying fire and Alice
burst in to tears. hands covering her face.
  'Hey!' said Sybil. 'þhat won't help. It þever helps.'
  'I feel so shitty. Helpless. You are so kind. . . I mean,
honestly. . .'
Alice smot! her red tlbe tear s which had streamed down her face.
wiped
her nose, saiffed, shook her þead to bring the moment back into
focus. 'I'll manage. Coþe. Soldier's daughter, : asn. But thank
you,
dearest Syb. . .'
  'God! I just hate you feeling like this. Driftwood. It's crazy.
At your
age! You have so muCh going þor you. so much time, Alice. Come
East. I couldn't live here! I only rent Mecca up on Tropicana
Drive
so ' doþþ't get to stay at lousy hotels while I'm taping a show.
. . but
I couldþ?'t þia,þe here. be a ,art of it.'
  `You are wise. I am certain that you are right. but I can't
leave.
I'm breaking into something. doors are opening. I worked too
bloody 'hard for that. . . I Can't junlþ it now.'
  'Stubborn bitch.'
  'Aways was I suppose.'
  'Maybe that's part Lþ your charm? Alice the Fearless?'
  'Except for being alone. You know, Syb. I never, in my wildest
dreams. my worst nightmares, really thought that you would die
and leave me on my own. Never. never.'
  Sybil stuffed a handful of yellowing tace into the bag she had
brought.
  'We:'.' s'þe said. 'use diþ.'

  Irina had been dOzing lightly in her chair by the windOw when
the telephone rang. starting her awake. S'þe heard Mouse crossing
tþe
  hall. heard her speak in English, a small Cry of pleasure. the
receiver
  replaced. She sat waiting. Sunday. It could not possibly be
anyone
  from the Bureau. . . not yet anyway. And no one, or almost no
one,
  now telephoned her on a Sunday; it was a drab, silent day
usually.
  What could this be. then?
  Mouse Came into the big room on Cautious feet. `COuntess?
  Countess dear? Are you awake%'
  'Do I look asleep?'
  'I was fearful of disturbing you. . . you 'have been so sad.
I thought
I perhaps that you were resting.'
  'Resting: Why should I rest? I have been trapped in my bed for
  days. I do not require rest. Who was that?'
  Mouse sat on a small stool near her mistress, and  clasped.
eyes
  bright behind the glittery spectacles.
  'A Sunday guest! Can you imagine! Boris Kragujevac has asked
  if he might Come and take tea with us, this afternoon. He is
not faþ
  away. almost here.'
  'You said that he might% Without reference to me? Mouse, you
are altogether a lot too presumptuous.'
  Mouse bowed her head. 'I am so sorry. Yes. I say that he might.
  Truthfully I felt that a visitor, and one that you like so
well, would be welcome. Would cheer you.'
  'Cheer me: Have I been saying. pray: aNything in despair, have
I been so ill-mannered as to allow my discomfort to show to that
extent:'
  'Countess dear, no. Of course you are never ill-mannered. What
a thing to say! But you have been, shall I put it this way, you
have
been "absent". in a manner of speaking, for a few days. . . I was
so
worried. . . but now it seems that you have returned to us. That
is
all.'
  'You make me sound as if I were awakening from hibernation.
Mouse. '
  The fact that she had used the affectionate name instead of her
given name reassured Mouse that she had not committed any grave
error. and that Kragujevac was welcome. So she relaxed.
  'We can use the last of the real tea. . . there is just enough
for two brewings. . . and I have a small box of cookies. But no
sugar. '
  'You have no lemon, I'll be bound.'
  'Ah yes! I bought some lemons the last time at Thrifty's. . .
was
not that a good thing?'
  'Lemons.' said Irina leaning against the high back of her
chair.
'Lemons in my father's garden in Yalta. We had trees. . . the
scent
in spring was so heavy. I well recall.'
  'I had never seen a lemon growing. . . or an orange. How for-
tunate you were, Countess.'
  'Things which, at your age, Mouse. you would hardly remember
anyway. So you are not deprived.'
  'Ah Countess! I remember things in the past too. But I was in
Petersburg. We had no tropical trees in Petersburg. But I
remember
the night the great battleship Aurora bombarded the Winter
Palace:
it is a different memory. I agree, from lemon trees in Yalta. .
. but
it is no less vivid to me. Countess. All the city seemed ablaze,
we were
very frightened. . .'
  'I was never frightened.' said Irina, looking out across the
Pacific.
  'You have always shown the highest degree of courage.
Countess.'
  'It is true.' said Irina. 'I can recall the big. sweet, scarlet
melons
we would take to the peasants in the fields at harvest time. The
sky
brilliant. cloudless. burning: the cool shadows in the ditches
and the
woods where they would go to take their rest. My father and I
would carry the melons to them. . . so refreshing. The creaking
of the cartwheels. the golden glory of the corn. . . the Dnieper
as wide. as
  slow. as a muddy sea. It was all peace, all happiness. So long
ago.
  Too long ago. Near Kiev.'
  Mouse got to her feet. she had heard this before. 'Countess
dear:
  Will you wish to change: Your dress%'
  Irina looked down at herself. smoothed her broad lap and heavy
  thighs. 'Why. pray% Kragujevac is an artist. He wars careless
  clothes. I have no desire to embarrass him by changing. We must
  make our guest, as always. completely at ease. I stay as I am.
After
  all. he has seen me in this dress for the last five years. It
will hardly
' come as a surprise to him.'
  'Then I shall start the water. and set the cups.'
  Dubrovnik's size made the large, ugly room appear smaller. His
  laughter brought it life. Mouse sat. as she always did, across
the
, room, behind her tea-table, and watched with delight the Sunday
  guest sprawl comfortably, legs stuck out before him. strong
hands
  holding his cup. eyes flashing with pleasure as he spoke both
of the
  Amazon. and the extraordinary things which he hoped to see. and
  to photograph. His excitement even fired Irina. who leant
forward
  in her chair to question. listen. and sometimes even to laugh.
The
  change he brought to the solitary. lonely house was incredible,
and
, Mouse was suffused with delight that Sunday had lost its
sadness.
  and that her mistress seemed. for the time being anyway. happy.
  content, and almost back to her old form. The form which had
been
  hers in the days of the salon; when the room buzzed with
conversation, laughter. and was charged with plans and schemes
for
i
  a probable future. For so long now, she thought, sipping her
tea
' slowly to make it last, her eyes constantly darting between the
guest
  and her mistress, there had been little hope of anything like
a
  'probable future'. She had felt. for some time. that life was
a railway
  train slowly running towards a long dark tunnel, brakes
applied.
  the steam sighing. the darkness approaching with every turn of
the
  wheels.
  With Dubrovnik's arrival the atmosphere had altered. She had.
for the moment. lost sight of any tunnel. any feeling of a life
trailing
towards inevitable darkness. And death.
  `And they cleared vast areas of jungle to build this place.
Brasilia%
And now it is all falling down? Madness!' said Irina, easing her
back
cautiously among her cushions.
  'The cement cracks. the lagoons leak, the jungle will creep
back
among the huge, big buildings. . . even the cathedral. . . all
will be
gone. Man is. . . what you call when he is so small. . . so
weak?'
He measured man's size between forefinger and thumb.
  `A word?' asked Irina. `You mean what word would one apply
to man: '
  `Yah. . . this is what I mean. You know?'
  `Puny.' said Irina.
  'Puny.' Dubrovnik repeated. `Is so. In that place. man is,
pony. . .'
  Mouse laughed suddenly. blushed. set down her cup quickly.
'Excuse me. please! I was so rude.'
  'Indeed.' said Irina.
  'What I say? Wrong? Pony?'
  'Puny,' said Irina. 'Take no notice of Mouse, she is
practically
illiterate.'
  'Well. man is pony. he is puny, makes no difference. Nature
gets
him finally.' He smiled across at Mouse to reassure her that he
held
no displeasure. She bowed her head. unable to hold the boldness
of
his strange blue eyes. brimming with contained delight.
  'And Alice Arlington?' said Irina suddenly.
  `Alice?'
  'She will be sad, I think.'
  Dubrovnik shook his head. looked about for somewhere to place
his empty cup. Mouse was at his side, silently. instantly.
'Another
cup: '
  'No. Thank you. Is fine. Sure.' he crossed his legs. threaded
his
fingers under his chin, looked at the worn carpet, `Sure. Alice.
But
she has her children. . . she has her work.1 must work! This is
my,
what you call it, my dream? I have to do. . .'
  'Of course.' said Irina. 'One has to do what one has to do, one
cannot, must not, stifle creativity. It is greatly important. If
one does,
hah! then one dies. Eh: '
  'I suppose. Ah yah, yah! That is very good. is right. Very
right!'
  'Like her husband. Hugo. . . for weeks and weeks he sat at my
feet like a small boy, begging me for stories. writing, making
me
speak into a machine. . . books of notes he made. Incredible! For
his
book. you recall% The Colden Immigrants. Such an odd title. A
little
vulgar under the circumstances.'
    'Was vulgar%'
    'To consider Mann. Brecht. Lenya, Huxley and so on as im-
    migrants. . '
    'They were not?'
    Irina shrugged.'It is a word I dislike. It was applied to
myself
    when I arrived here. as it was to Tatiana Ivanova. this Mouse
of
    mine. '
    `He was most clever. Hugo.'
    'Brilliant. But then... Mouse, you may take my cup. I am
    finished.' As Mouse came to get it she continued, 'But then
some-
    thing terrible happened. the creativity began to fade in him.
I could
    see it. like a sun setting: the pale clouds drawing up. the
light
    lingering. dying, you follow me? He lost the passion for his
work.
    he began to find other releases for the brilliance which he
sup-
    pressed. as he moved towards. it is strange to say it but I
will. as
    he moved towards his evening.'
    'Is true. Yah. True.'
    `You of course knew this. You were a good friend.'
    'A bad friend.'
'   'Bad%'
    'Yah... you see. I did not stop this... what you said... this
move
    towards "his evening".'
    'I doubt if any of us could. Not Alice, certainly. not
myself. We
    watched him go. Tragic, tragic...'
    'He was here many times I think?' said Dubrovnik.
    Mouse was suddenly uncomfortably aware that he was addressing
the remark to her. and not to the Countess. She kept her head
'   lowered, rearranged the used cups on her tea-tray.
i   'He spent weeks and weeks here... what delight it was for
me!'
,
    said Irina.'No little detail was too trivial. He demanded
exhaustingly... I was quite exhilarated. the past came back so
vividly under
    his questioning. Dear, half-blind Huxley... Lotte and her
coarse, fiat
    voice."Did she sing for you: " he asked me."Certainly... in
this
    room... the voice of Lenya is still in this room," I told
him. And
    it is so. If we had a machine which could register. or do I
mean,
    recall: sound. gather the widening ripples, for they spread,
you
!   know: Like the ripples on a lake when one has thrown a stone.
they
    grow wider and wider from the source of the disturbance...
if we had such a machine, oh! the sounds which it could bring
back to us. how glorious it would be!'
  'But there would also be terrible sounds. is true? Not only
pleasant
ones: '
  'It's true. Yes.'
  'I think we do not want this machine. Eh, Mouse?'
  Mouse tried not to look at him. folded a small napkin twice.
in
some confusion.
'What you think? Is so?'
  'Answer. Mouse! Boris asks you a question.'
  Mouse looked up. unease spreading through her small body: she
crushed the folded napkin. 'It is true. Yes. Terrible sounds.
Terrible
words. I would not like it. Countess.' She had deliberately
avoided
Dubrovnik and addressed herself to Irina.
  'Well. . . it is possible,' sighed Irina. 'One cannot only hear
beauty
in life. There were other sounds. of course.'
  'Is more crying. we would hear. Is right% In all the world of
sound,
is more weeping than laughter. You think so? Is my philosophy I
think.'
  'I cannot answer, dear Boris. . . cannot answer. But we will
not
have this machine. I agree. It is best that silence remains. In
silence
one can imagine only. one is not disturbed. distressed. No. I do
not
want to hear the sound of weeping again. . . no, no.'
  'Or guns. Cannons,' said Dubrovnik. 'Like faraway thunder.'
  'Or guns,' said Irina. 'No.'
  Mouse suddenly addressed herself to the room, not to either of
the
occupants. her head high. her eyes. behind the spheres of glass,
over-bright. 'I think that there would be more laughter than
tears
and distress. I think there would be more beauty than ugliness.
That
is my philosophy.' She sat perfectly still, her hands folded on
the little
table. There was a moment's silence. Irina coughed discreetly,
a
smothered sound of disapproval.
  'I beg your pardon.' said Mouse. `It is what I think. Excuse
me.'
  Dubrovnik. she saw. was watching her with apparent un-
concern. Her unease increased. She collected the cups. the plate
of
uneaten cookies, put them on the tray.
  Irina said. 'Hugo was a brilliant creature. but too weak for
the
temptations of this appalling place. He fell from grace. Icarus
tempting the sun.'
  'It is a dangerous place. The standards are not so high. I am
  right: ' said Dubrovnik.
  Mouse rose. lifted the tray.
' 'Be careful!' said Irina. 'It is a heavy tray. let Boris assist
you,
  otherwise you will drop the whole thing.'
  Dubrovnik was on his feet. moving towards Mouse. 'I can help.
  Please.'
  'No. no. It is quite all right. thank you.'
  'She has bad hands. It is quite difficult for her to carry
heavy
things.'
  'I am sorry. Please. . .' said Debrovnik and took the tray.
'Your
hands: Why didn't I know long ago: '
  'Because.' said Irina firmly, 'it happened long ago. She cut
her
hands when she was a girl. That is so Mouse, eh: '
  Mouse, in an agony of embarrassment, placed her hands flat to
her side. `Long ago.'
  'It was an accident you had: I am desolate,' said Dubrovnik.
  'On wire. I cut my hands on some wire. But I am perfectly
capable of carrying the tray, it is not heavy. And I can drive.
too ! '
  'The china is all we have.' said Irina. 'Let Boris take it for
you.'
Her face was suddenly sallow with pain.
  Mouse followed him out into the hallway. `The kitchen is here.
I would be grateful if you allowed me. . .'
  Dubrovnik cut her short. `I take. What wire? When: Really so
long: '
  Mouse switched on the light in the kitchen, somewhere far away
she heard a stick crack, a woman cry out in sudden fear.
  'Yes. Many years ago. The Polish border. A funny place. . .
look.
the tray will sit here, on the table. You are most kind.' She
cleared
a space among the scattered dishes which remained from their
frugal luncheon and which she had not had time to clear and wash.
'I am sorry. This is a very untidy place. Excuse me. But. you
see,
Sunday is a quiet day. I am very lazy. . .'
  `It is a good room. A place to sit round the table. To talk and
drink,
I think. Is so: '
  'Oh yes. In the old days we did that at this long table. We
just sat
round and talked. Like students! It was most pleasing. We had
wine.
And candles.'
  'Did Hugo come to this table too?' He set the tray carefully
down
at the cleared corner.
  `Hugo? Arlington% Oh yes. He wrote here sometimes. . . I can
see
all his books and papers. the machine which the Countess spoke
into. he would replay, is that what they say: Replay her words
and
write them down. Here. at this table. I made him tea. It was most
interesting.'
  'I am sure. And he was also a very good photographer I think?'
  Mouse stood still. 'Photographer% He wrote. Only wrote.'
  Dubrovnik thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. rocked
gently on his booted heels. 'No photographs? A perfect place. The
shades of the Golden Immigrants! Tea at the kitchen table.'
  'No. He wrote.'
  'No camera?'
  Mouse lifted the tea-pot, removed the lid. carried it to the
sink
across the room, ran water. rinsed the pot. poured tea leaves
into
a bucket at the side.
  'No camera: Hugo%'
  'No,' said Mouse. 'He had no camera. I never saw a camera. I'm
sorry. '
  The field before her was white with frost. a crow flapped
slowly
away into the rising sun.
  She turned and smiled at Dubrovnik: replaced the tea-pot lid.
'He
had no camera. I assure you. We must go back to the Countess. she
will be quite fretful.' she said.

chapter 12.
Evening

'I'm sorry.' said Jonathan, coming into the rectangular room,
'to,
as it were, drop in on you.'
  'Didn't drop in at all. You telephoned at least. I had
warning.' said
Alice. 'I do detest droppers-in. don't you% Maddening. Sit where
you
like, the place is a mess, like the rest of the house. Sybil has
been
here all day. We've been working on a design for a dress - for
her
new show.' She sat in one of the squashed armchairs. head back.
'Exhausted, my dear. How lovely to see you. Sunday evening is
hellish. This is treats.'
  `Thank you. I was going down to Santa Monica and the thought
occurred to me that I might just. well. you know. come and see
you.'
  `Super that you did.' She rolled her head against the chair
back.
'Santa Monica% What on earth are you trailing off to Santa Monica
for on a Sunday evening?' She sat up suddenly. laughed. hand to
her mouth. 'Foot in it,' she said. `Of course. She's very. . .
hand-
some. '
  `Thank you.'
  'No need to thank me, my dear. Her looks are hardly your
responsibility. eh % '
  'Perfectly true. A reflex action. Automatic.'
  `Dog-like: Pavlov's dog%'
  `Leave it.' he said.
  Alice got up, went to the tape deck, slid a cassette into the
player.
'Drive you mad? Brahms?'
  'No. Not in the least bit.'
  `Good. He's soothing. I find. And music fills the gaps. . . I
thought
that you'd lost all your perks when Shapiro went, not so? Car.
driver. so on.'
  'I did. Rehired him back on my own. privately.'
  'That'll cost you.'
  'Must have a car. And he makes me laugh.'
  'Who? Your driver?'
'The White Rat. Yes.'
'Well. you must be a millionaire.'
'Screw it. Won't be for long.'
  Alice got up again. found a squashed packet of cigarettes, lit
one.
'When do you leave: '
  'Altered the flight to wednesday.'
  'Paris: Lucky bugger.'
  'London. Lea has to report back for duty on Monday.'
  'Lea does% Goodness me! She work% An heiress at the least. I'd
have said.'
  'No. She works. Psychologist. Children.'
  'I am impressed. My word. I'm amazed. I mean she doesn't look
the kind of woman who would be clever, you know: '
  'Well she is. How about that%'
  'Filled with admiration. Do you all go back then: Noah's Ark
stuff
. . . the animals went in two by two. . . Only three of you. of
course.'
  'Yes. Only three. I think Nettles joins us. He has a few loose
ends
to tie up here, so have I. Lawyers banging about with the Shapiro
business. If they settle things, I'll clear. . . hardly Noah's
Ark stuff.'
  `Hardly. Oh well. Everything comes to an end. they say. Right?'
  'Yes. Really. Alice, I came to apologize.'
  She rose instantly. went across to the kitchen door.
'Apologize?'
She pushed the door slightly with one foot. 'What in God's name
for?'
  `Sybil's supper. I was bloody rude.'
  'Not in the least! Rude, you? Jon dear! I should apologize to
you.
if apologies were needed. which they aren't. I was a bit high.
Dubrovnik filled me with scotch. I reacted, over-reacted. to his
decision to go off and make his blasted movie. I was the one who
was rude. a bit pushy. Frankly. . .' she opened the door wider,
'. . .
I panicked. And I loathe Sybil's house anyway. . . so don't
apologize
to me. Other way round.' She left him. From the kitchen a sound
of high laughter. a squeal of pleasure. 'Wayne! You are too much!
Too much!' The door closed quietly.
  I hate this house. I hate this room. A coffin. How does she
stick
it? A long, low coffin. with the lid nailed down.
  'White or red? Or scotch if you'd rather?' She was standing at
the
door. a bottle held by the neck, two glasses. 'And don't do any
of
that dainty middle-class stuff and say "Whatever is open" or I'll
kill
you!'
  'White.'
  'Very wise.' she said, opening the bottle with a corkscrew
which
she had stuck in her jeans pocket. `Wise. After all. you may
start
dinner with fish. Does she cook? As well as heal disturbed
children?'
  'She cooks.'
  'What a clever lady. I can't boil water.' She offered him a
glass.
'Bit of cork bobbing about, I can't even open a bottle. Hugo
would
have killed me for that. . . but it is not corked. Your health.'
she said,
raising her glass and sitting down again.
  Brahms filled the silence between them on a mournful cello.
  'Your driver, what's his name% The White Rat?'
  'Wayne.'
  'Looks exactly like the underside of a sole, know what I mean?
Moist. white. almost transparent.'
  `He works at nights.'
  'Pretty evident. However. the girls are adoring him. stuffing
him
with beer and crackers. Anyone will do on a Sunday evening.'
  Suddenly the kitchen door crashed open: Hope standing on one
leg. 'Hey Mom. . . Mother. excuse me. Can I go get your scissors?
Wayne says he'll fix my bracelet. Can I?'
  `Did you say Good evening to Jonathan% I mean he is present.
In
the room'.
  Hope blushed scarlet. 'Oh. Sorry. Yep. Hi. I mean. . . Hi, Jon.
We
did meet in the hall, right?'
  'We did.' said Jonathan.
  Hope shook his hand as if she was pumping water. 'Isn't it
great?
He's got his guitar in the car, he said. . . and he knows "The
Foggy
Foggy Dew" and "We Shall Overcome" and everything. . . can I get
the scissors ? '
    'In the wickerwork basket. On top of my wardrobe. And put
them
    back where they came from when you're through.'
    'Jon? Jon, do you know the "Rolling Pin Song"?'
    'No. Hoppy. I don't.'
    'It's so funny! I'm going to teach Wayne.' She sang loudly.
` "The '
,   frying pan said with mischievous glance. Good evening Miss
Rolling
I
    Pin. Pray won 't you dance..
    `Is enough. Hope.' said Alice.
i   `Okey-dokey. But it's terrific.' She crashed out of the room
shouting something to the kitchen group. The cello mourned
softly.
    'Never a dull moment.' said Jonathan.
'   'You'd be surprised. Christ.'
I
;   'It's just that I wanted to tell you about Lea. myself. Do
you
    follow%'
    'I follow. That was very generous. Thoughtful.'
    'I know that you'll be privately thinking it's a bit boyish.'
I
    'Quite wrong. I think it is charming and kind of you.'
    'A middle-aged man, declaring his love.'
    'What's wrong with that% As long as you are certain...'
    'Oh, I am.'
    'Is she%'
'   'I think so. Yes.'
    'Thinking is not enough. Is it%'
  'I know. Better: '
  'It sounds a little more secure, doesn't it? It's a bit late
in life for
us to make howlers.'
  'Make them all the time, I'm afraid. One doesn't change. It
seems
to me that it is never too late to make an idiot of oneself.
However,
one lives in hope. I'd been doing that for far too long. hadn't
I: '
  'Living in hope: You mean hopes of me. That it: Indirectly%'
  `Directly. Torch-carrier par excellence. was I.'
  'Now no longer? Splendid. Past ten.se.'
  'Yes. Past tense.'
  `Torch extinguished by a clever lady psychologist. Who also
cooks. '
  `Sorry.'
  `No need to be sorry. Really not. But I will confess that I
shall miss
that torch. It lit up some pretty frightening corners for me in
the
past. over some bloody moments. I have to thank you for that.
From
the heart.'
  'Oh don't. Please don't.'
  'You need a rest from all that carrying. Hand it over to
someone
else. '
  'Anyone in mind?'
  'Don't be lunatic. Who% Dubrovnik? Can you see him carrying a
torch for anyone but himself? Anyway it wouldn't throw much
light. would it. all the way from the Amazon or wherever he's
trolling off to. '
  'When does he go: '
  Alice drained her glass, refilled it. offered the bottle to
Jonathan.
`A sip more: A tear: '
  'A sip, thanks.'
  'He goes sometime. I don't know. Hasn't said. It's all got to
be set
up and so on: all he has are some vague permits. I should think
a
South American permit is about as useless as last year's
Christmas
card. They keep on changing bosses. . . and of course the moment
something happens to one of his benighted children, wherever they
are, he's off like a rocket. Keening. I could willingly brain
that
damned wife of his. Oh! The Catholic mentality!'
  'He'll never be free: '
  'I honestly don't think that he wants to be - he quite enjoys
the 'situation.' Alice threw the butt of her cigarette into the
fire. 'Makes
  him feel safer. I should have remarried directly after Hugo
died, I
; suppose. Cold blooded. but I think it would have been
sensible.'
  ' Dubrovnik % '
  'Not a chance. I've explained. Anyway. I'm really pretty sick
of
that great creative-peasant mind. It's terribly limiting and not
very
profound. '
  'And I didn't have enough to offer, did I?'
; 'Dearest Jon. . . oh dearest Jon. What a sow you make me feel.'
  'Brother and sister. that it%'
  She nodded gently. 'It wouldn't have worked, Jon. You'd have
' throttled me within a six-month.'
  'But at Sybil's the other evening you. . .'
! She raised a hand to halt him. 'I told you, I was a bit high
that
  evening. panicked. I ran too fast. . . I often do. . . I was.
what did
  they call it% pressing my suit rather too hard. and you weren't
; anxious to wear it. Follow% I was too late, as usual. But in
any case.
  as you have always known, my dear, I'm still in love. I only
ever
  will be in love. with that idiot bastard Hugo. Nothing to be
done.   He was the only one for me. Finish.'

    `look Mother! Look!' Hope crashed into the room, arm waving
    like a flail. `It's fixed! Wayne fixed it! Isn't it great:
My bracelet. See
    Jon% Ladybugs and daisies. and he fixed it so quick. This is
better'n
    Christmas!'
!   Clemency came in from the kitchen with a slow, measured walk.
!   hand outstretched. `How lovely to see you. Jonathan! And on
a
    Sunday! I mean, I know we met in the hall but I didn't know
that
    you had brought magic with you.'
i   'Magic%'
    'Wayne. He's super. Mended that tacky bit of plastic. so now
we'll
    all get a bit of peace, and. if you don't very much mind.
he's
    plunking away at his guitar... Warming it. he said. We don't
often
i   have a real musician. do we, Mother% playing in the
kitchen... it's
;   quite magic.'
    'I'm glad. We have to leave soon though..
    Hope gave a loud wail.'Hey! Jon! Not before we teach him the
    "Rolling Pin Song"... it's fun. You know how it ends% Clem,
you
I
    stand here. we'll sing it..
  'Don't be ridiculous.' said Clemency. 'Jonathan has better
things
to do...'
  'I'd simply love to hear it. Please. . '
  'Well.' said Hope. clutching the bracelet to her wrist. `the
last bit
goes. . . um. . . um, "Duni durn dee dum clum. Why yes. she said
shyly, But please hold me tight, 'Carese I won't want to do any
rolling,
toning fit!" Isn't that just wild. . .'
  'It's enough, too,' said Alice.
  'You really have to go: on the Orient Express is on TV. . .
you wouldn't like to stay and eat that'
  'No, really. I have a dinner date.'
  Hope crushed her heel into the carpet. 'Oh well. Anyway, he's
fixed this - and that is stunning, amazing. wonderful! I'm just
never
going to take it off.'
  `You'll have to to wash.' said Clemency. 'Filthy pig.'
  'I will not! That's how I lost Daddy's one. I left it on the
wash-
bowl and it just went. It stays on. . .'
  'Listen.' said Alice. 'I'm delighted it's fixed, now just
clear, and
let Jon and me finish our conversation in peace. Please? Then
he's
got to drive to Santa Monica. so don't give whatever his name is
any more beer.'
  'He won't drink any beer. only milk. He's strictly teetotal.'
said
Hope. 'Anyway. Jon. thanks for a miracle. It's just amazing!' She
slammed out of the room calling. `Wayne! Wayne. . . he says you
have to leave soon. so if I just hummed the first. . .'
  The closing door shut off her question. Clemency put a small
log
on the dying fire. `I'll go and keep an eye on things. It was
simply
lovely to see you, jonathan. 'Night.' She walked studiedly across
the
room. turned at the door, smiled. raised her hand in a half
gesture
of farewell. turned, went into the kitchen.
  Jonathan laughed.
  'Easy to laugh.' said Alice. 'Sometimes I thank God for them.
sometimes I could kill the pair of them. beat their heads against
a
wall. Something.'
  'You never would.'
  'No. No. I never would. The story of my life. Loyal, loving
wife
and mother. Christ! Wouldn't it be simply wonderful to have
nothing more pressing to worry about than a cheap plastic
bracelet
  and a tired movie on the television? Wouldn't it just be. . .
the most%
  Simply "stunning". "amazing", "wonderful".'
' 'A miracle,' said Jonathan.

chapter 13.
Monday, 26 January

'. . . So call in right now on 453-47766, your Friendly Dealer,
the People Who Know What You Want At The Price You Want To Pay.
On 4þ3-47766. your Friendly Dealer!'
  The water in the little saucepan came up to the boil.
  'And now the weather.' The radio voice was unctuous. fiat; Lea
lowered two eggs carefully into the seething water, up-ended the
egg-timer.
  'Today there is a high of sixty-two in Manhattan
BeachIngle-wood, right across to Glendale. with a low, low
expected tonight of
forty-two. Some hill fog across the San Fernando Valley. But last
night's short rainfall has left clear skies all the way to
Pasadena; the
smog count is a low, low point five. and the weather will
continue
dry, warm for the season. and sunny. You are tuned to WXQZ.'
Music filled Nettles's rented knotty-pine kitchen with the sound
of
throbbing violins which Lea switched off as she crossed to the
door,
tying her cotton dressing gown round her waist.
  'Nettles: Are you running water? Can you hear? Your eggs are
on the point of being ready. Coming%'
  Somewhere above a shoe fell. hitting the board floor. 'Coming!'
he called back.
  Toast in the rack. coffee bubbling in the percolator with
irregular
'plops' as the dark liquid hit the glass lid, steam wavering from
the
eggs. She opened the refrigerator door. took out the orange
juice.
filled a glass. set it on the antique knotty-pine table, peered
at the
egg-timer as the last of the coloured sand ran into the base.
Always
so surprising: how the last grains rushed through so fast after
the
slow start. She turned off the gas. lifted the eggs with a
slotted spoon, set them on a napkin-covered saucer. as Nettles
arrived.
  'All ready. Perfect timing.' She sat down and buttered toast.
  'Oh. the agony before me.' said Nettles, pulling out a
ladder-back
chair and sitting opposite her. 'Why in the name of God don't
they
have egg-cups in America? Eating a boiled egg out of a cup is
most
irregular.'
  'Must be used to it now. After a year.'
  He was cracking the shells all over with the back of a spoon.
'I
am. But that doesn't mean I have grown any less irritated. One
burns one's fingers so.'
  `You should have checked the inventory.'
  'Too many other things to check. Never thought of bloody egg-
cups. Who would?'
  `I would.'
  'Of course you would. my child. Never forget anything, do you.
Beady eye for detail.'
  Lea laughed suddenly. poured coffee. 'I nearly did. Last night.
With Jonathan. Eggs all right?'
  'So far as I can tell. perfect. Bloody hot. Agonizing.' He
peeled
shell into a small pile on the napkin, dropped the egg into a
cup.
started on the second one. `What did you nearly forget? 1 forget.
If
you follow?'
  'Nearly forgot my proposal. Making Jonathan propose. I mean.'
  'Oh that. Ah yes. Very important. I'd rather taken it for
granted
that he had done so already.'
  'So had he. Salt's here. . . and pepper.'
  'I'm quite scalded.' He peeled the second egg rapidly, dropped
it
into the cup. took the salt and some pepper; lifted his spoon.
'And
now one commences. Goodness. what a business over a couple of
eggs! I always liked, so much, tapping the top and then removing
the little lid part. you know% The white under there is always
the
first taste of delight to come. . . and then the moment when one
thrusts in the spoon and the yolk spills out. so deep, so yellow,
dribbling down the side of the egg-cup. Oh! what bliss. And
sticking
a slim piece of buttered bread into the very heart - a "soldier".
Do
you remember "soldiers": How lovely they were. This is simply
barbaric, mashing eggs together. A mush in a tea-cup. Quite
revolting.'
  'I was really rather surprised myself. as it happens. About
forgetting that Jonathan hadn't proposed. I mean he'd said all
the right
  things. you know. But he had not actually said. in so many
words.
  that he wanted to marry me. I got quite a turn when I
remembered.
  I was draining the peas.'
  'Which is perhaps why they were cold. You must have been very
  shocked. '
  'I was. You know: This is the last of the Dundee marmalade. .
  just as well we are leaving. No point in buying a whole new pot
for
  a few days. is there: '
  'None whatsoever. He did it quite charmingly, I thought.
  Jonathan.'
  `Propose? Oh yes. Yes he did. He was rather astonished himself,
  I think. That he'd forgotten. He said he thought I'd taken it
for
granted that his intentions were honourable. I had, of course.
deep
down, but I wanted to hear him say so.'
  Nettles scooped about inside the egg-messed tea-cup. 'I thought
it was done with great elegance. I was quite touched,' he said.
  Lea finished the orange juice. wiped her lips with the tips of
her
fingers. 'So odd. It was the very first proposal I ever had. No
one
asked me to actually go through to marriage with them before.
  That's why I rather forced things last night. You know% A woman
  wants to hear that phrase at least just once in her life. "Will
you
  marry me: " Corny, I suppose. But I am getting on, I was rather
concerned that I might never hear it.'
  `Well. now you have.'
  `Now I have. Although I was pretty certain really, it hit me
like
a sword-thrust just above the heart. All the soppy songs are
true.
you know. A heart does stand still. At a moment like that.'
  I know, thought Nettles. setting his cup aside and reaching for
toast. I know how it feels. I felt a sword-thrust, my dearest
child.
Through the heart. The thought of you leaving me. of belonging
to someone else for the rest of your life, having someone quite
other to share the worries and the doubts; although I want it for
you. because you want it so. I don't want it for me. I'm getting
on a bit myself I fear loneliness too. Expected what has
happened.
of course. even rather hoped for it: for you. But now that it's
come
I feel an extraordinary sense of loss. inner desolation.
Perfectly
ridiculous.
  'You are so like your mother, you know.' he said. spreading
marmalade.
  `But she didn't force a proposal. did she: You did that.'
  'I pushed your father. yes. . . she was very reluctant. Mad
about
him. with very good reason. but 1 had to force things. We had
supper
in some perfectly awful Chinese restaurant and I thought that if
I
didn't meddle a bit. bring things to a head. we'd be stuck there
for ever. Frightful food. Of course it was in the middle of a
civil
war. nineteen forty-five, but even so. . . I remember we had hot
champagne. To celebrate.'
  Lea laughed, took his cup and refilled it. 'Hot champagne: It
  couldn't be. . .'
  'Well. warm. . . all they had.' He took the offered cup. 'Thank
you.
  You know I shall miss this over-conscious little kitchen. I'm
going
  to miss quite a lot of things. I've enjoyed it. But this room
has great
charm, I think.'
  `It's so decorated. Knotty-pine fretwork everywhere, ticking
wall-
clock in a wormwood frame, that old coffee grinder, the rope of
obligatory garlic, string of onions, dried herbs in a stone jar.
. . very
Norman Rockwell.'
  'I never dared to touch them. They must be years old. crumbling
to dust.'
  'Plastic,' said Lea. . . 'Except the 'erbs. They drop the "H"
here.
don't they: '
  'Good Elizabethan English. Like "fall" for autumn and "gotten"
for our got. Your snobbery is showing.'
  'No! Not at all! An observation only. I'm not a bit snobbish
about
America, it's too warm and kind - the kindest place I've ever
been
in. I think that's what I'll miss the most in England. The
openness
here. the interest. the amazing generosity. the in-built sense
of
classlessness.'
  Nettles stirred sugar into his coffee. shook his head
thoughtfully.
'Not really classless. It shows itself. From time to time. I
found that.
In college. other places. There are enormous divisions. And a
quite
frightening intolerance. . . that surprised me. You saw it last
night.
a perfect example.'
  'Last night: ' Lea had risen and was stacking her plate and
coffee
cup; she stood still. 'When% Oh. Ah yes. Jonathan's driver. In
the orange suit. Wayne.' She went across to the dish-washer,
rattled it
open.
  'The White Rat,' said Nettles.
  'Yes. that was scarey. But isolated. surely: Although Jonathan
said not. '
  Nettles shrugged. 'Common enough, I'm afraid. That machine
will have to go on this morning. Full of last night's supper
stuff. . .
have you room for these?' He raised his plate and coffee cup.
  'Yes. Just. I'm afraid I led him on, the creep. I was
fascinated.
appalled. And enraged.'
  When she had opened the front door. the White Rat was standing
there, a cardboard box in his arms. Jonathan behind him. a fine
rain
falling.
  'Presents!' said Jonathan. 'Wayne here insisted on carrying
them
across your garden.'
  `Come in, it's raining, you'll both be soaked.'
  `Where do I put this?' said the White Rat.
  'Anywhere. . . here. . . this table.' Lea quickly moved a
plastic fern
and a telephone. made space for the carton.
  'Two Mouton Cadet. imported. one Dimple Haig, two jars of
asparagus. imported. one pot of pate de foie gras. Fauchon,
Paris,
France.' said Jonathan.
  'It weighs,' said the White Rat. setting it on the table.
  'You are quite mad! Why the largesse% I've got dinner ready.'
  'I thought perhaps a little touch of splendour. I felt
extravagant.'
  Wayne brushed his sleeves. adjusted his tie. ran nervous
fingers
through springy hair, coughed lightly.
  'Ah yes!' Jonathan turned suddenly to Lea. 'Can Wayne use your
telephone? To call his sister? I kept him waiting a bit, at
Alice's. He's
behind schedule.'
  Lea's eyes narrowed slightly. 'Dear Alice. I hope she's
terrifically
well. . . of course use the telephone. Wayne, it's right here.
behind
the fern. . . can you reach it: '
  'I got it. Thanks a lot. Margie worries if I'm late, scared of
mugging. you know% At this time of night. The blacks are coming
out...'
  'Well. you call her.' Lea picked up the two bottles of wine and
went into the sitting room. Jonathan behind her.
  'You really are potty. But thank you. Nettles will have a
stroke,
from sheer delight. He's getting a little weary of Napa Valley
Pinot
Noir. . . or whatever it is. Why is whatsisname's sister scared
of
being mugged: She's at home, isn't she? Or not?'
  'Not for herself she's worried. Him. A single bloke in a nice,
shiny, new Ford. . . alone on the freeway: The blacks do have a
singularly disturbing habit of creeping up alongside you, in
clapped-
out old sedans. no lights or number-plate,and just start gentle
harassing. nudging you into the side of the road. forcing you to
stop.'
  'And%' Lea stood one of the bottles of wine on the white marble
mantelshelf.
  `And then they beat you up, take the keys and piss off.'
  'I see.'
  `It's all over and done in minutes and no one lifts a finger.'
  'Happened to you?'
  `No. Not yet. But I knowù it does. Wayne's had it happen twice.
He's got a little gun now. He seems a bit accident prone. Unless
he's
lying. which is possible.'
  `A strange place. Shall I offer him a drink?'
  `He doesn't drink. Very sober.'
  `Well. a bottle of 7-Up: Can't hurt: '
  'It's okay,' said Wayne, putting his head round the sitting
room
  door. 'Margie was real glad I called. Thank you.'
  'Nothing. Would you care for a glass of something? 7-up: Or
I've
  got Canada Dry: '
  'Well. . .' Wayne rubbed his hands down the seams of his pants.
  looked across at Jonathan. 'If I'm not interrupting?'
  'Canada Dry: '
  `Is fine. Thank you, mam.'
  'Sit down,' said Lea, pouring his drink.
  'I can't really stay. I parked right across the street. and
it's late.'
  'He deserves a drink.' said Jonathan. 'He's been force-fed
cookies
  and milk by Alice's brats for the last hour oþ so, right: '
  Wayne grinned anxiously, looked at his watch. rocked uneasily
  on his heels. 'Is right. Mending a bracelet and trying to play
some
  kind of tune they knew in England. . . quite a lilt.'
  'Mending a bracelet:' Lea sat on the campaign-bed-settee.
'Diamonds and things: '
  'No. Christ no! Was just some old plastic ladybugs on elastic.
No
big deal.'
  'How clever.'
  'I string a cello. the big bass. you know% So I can string a
few
ladybugs, right%'
  'I suppose you can. Mr Pool's been telling me about the blacks.
On the freeways.'
  'He has? Everywhere you look is blacks. They come up from the
ghettos like rats out of the sewers, that's what. If you'll
forgive the
expression, mam.'
  'I take it that you don't much care for them, is that it?'
  'In one. mam. They should all be shipped off back to wherever
they came from.'
  'That would take a very long time,' said Lea.
  `Yeah. They breed like rats, too. Make everything dirty. They
move into a neighbourhood, it's a ghetto in a week. and it
stinks.
There's places not so far from this very house you wouldn't dare
to
walk, they'd stone you. spit at you. carve you up. even. They're
real
mean. We should ship 'em all back to their jungles.'
  'Do many people feel like this, Wayne? Or just you perhaps?'
  The White Rat twisted his glass about in his hand. his knuckles
butter yellow. 'Plenty feel like I do. Hate 'em. The blacks and
the
Jews. They ruined this land. . . my grand-daddy said. way back,
after the Civil War they just opened the flood gates to the trash
of
all the world. We was doing okay before that. Doing real good.
We
was clean. he said.'
  'But wasn't the Civil War about abolishing slavery. . . I mean
letting the blacks go free%'
  'Sure was.' said the White Rat, putting his glass on the coffee
table. `An' that was just about the craziest reason to start a
war that
there ever was. The Jews in New York was behind all that. the
carpet-baggers.'
  Lea leant forward. hands clasped loosely. eyes deceptively
gentle.
'Are you a Christian, Wayne: '
  He looked startled. 'Me: A Christian? Sure as hell am. mam.'
  'Then you are a follower of Christ. Right? Jesus Christ. Get
what
I mean: '
'Jesus Christ: '
  'The very same.'
  'Know what those old Jews did to Him: Nailed Him up. And they
ain't never forgotten. They don't like Christmas. they don't even
call
it that. they just say. "Have a Happy Holiday". You know the
joke.
"Cancel Easter: they found the body": That's a Jewish joke. Don't
you think that's disgusting% Real dirty: They just washed their
hands of Him.'
  'I think that was Pontius Pilate. actually.'
  Wayne looked about the room anxiously. 'That Jesus got too
uppity for them. Messed up the money-lenders. remember? You
interfere with a Jew's money he'll get you right quick in the
back.
Everything in this town they own. Movies, the television. the
banks
and the stores. Everywhere there is a Jew behind. Old hook-nose
with his diamond rings.'
  Jonathan suddenly looked at his watch. 'Wayne. I think you'd
better go. . . before someone pinches your car. . . be back here
about. . ' he looked across at Lea, '. . . about eleven thirty?'
Lea
nodded, hands still loosely folded. `Ring the bell at the front
gate
when you arrive so I know you're here. okay? We don't want a
mugging. Think of Margie.'
  'Will do,' said Wayne. He looked down at Lea. 'And thanks for
the refreshment. mam.'
  'No trouble. Thank you for such a revealing conversation.'
  'You're welcome. I like talking to you people from Europe. You
got so many things to ask a person. Real interesting for me.'
  'I'm sorry about the blacks, and the Jews. Difficult for you,'
said
Lea.
  The White Rat grinned. head to one side. 'It's okay. We'll win,
you
know. One day.'
  Lea rose and walked to the fire. avoiding the possibility of
shaking
his hand. 'How do you know. I wonder. that we aren't Jews in this
house: ' she said.
  There was a silence. The White Rat's smile died slowly. 'I just
know. You sense these things. I wouldn't lift a finger to help
no Jew
- only maybe to shut the doors of the ovens. Right%'
  Lea closed her hands into tight fists behind her back.
'Jonathan%
Be sweet and open the wine, will you. . . Goodnight. it has been
very
instructive. Very.'
  The White Rat was at the door. 'Like I said. no problem. Glad
I
put you wise to things. nice of you to ask. So. . . eleven
thirty, okay?
And I ring the bell at the gate? Have a nice time, now. And
thanks
for the telephone.' He let himself out into the fine rain.
  They heard the front door close quietly.
  `God! God Almighty!' said Lea. She placed her hands on the
mantelpiece. head bowed.
  'I'm sorry. I've heard all that before, of course.'
  'The hatred! The cold, unthinking hatred. I could have smashed
him in the teeth.'
  'All based on fear, resentment. sexual anxiety. . . a lot of
things. . .'
  'Oh shit!' said Lea, moving away from the fire. standing with
her
back to him. 'I know the reasons! But the bigotry, the
narrowness.
the unbelievable cruelty. the ignorance. Above all, the
ignorance.'
  'Good. clean-limbed boy from Oregon. Daddy was a lumberjack.
simple family life. Then Wayne broke away, got fed up with saw-
mills in Rock Valley, came down to the Big Time. . .'
  'The ignorance. the blind stupidity. Oh Christ!'
  `Don't go on fuming away. It's here to stay, you know. nothing
we can do about it, we are the foreigners. Not our problem.'
  `Is that feeling general% It can't be, couldn't be.'
  'I don't know how general it is in the Great Fly Over. . . but
it's
not unusual in this town.'
  'The Great Fly Over?'
  'The heart of America. The bit you fly over between New York
in the East and Los Angeles in the West. That's what it's called.
It's
the gut of America. I've never been there. neither have lots of
Americans. but that's where the real pulse beats. . .'
  `Does a pulse beat in the gut: '
  'Don't be so bloody literal. Where's Nettles% Out?'
  Lea took the wine and went towards the kitchen. `No. Up in his
rooms. sorting things. He's accumulated so much junk in a year
he could open a stall. He simply can't take it all with him.'
  'A year is quite a while.'
  'He hoards things. Bits of string. used envelopes. Jiffy bags.
God!
I just dread the thought of packing.' She pushed open the door.
'Help
yourself to a drink, I'm going to be cooker-bound for a little.
A leg
of lamb. that do: '
  'Terrific. '
  'With "new" potatoes and "new" peas. Garden fresh. from the
deepfreeze. God! I hope that Margie poisons her bloody little
brother
tonight.'
  'I need him for two more days yet. He's all right under all
that
rubbish, you know. it's the way he's been brought up. taught to
think.'
  'German background, I imagine?'
  'No, I regret to tell you, good þ'welsh stock. He told me with
great
pride. Very strictly brought up.'
  'You amaze me. Parents have a hell of a lot to answer for.'
  'No one,' said Jonathan. opening the bottle of scotch, 'knows
that
better than you, I'll wager. All your kids at Queen Alexandra's.
right?'
  'Absolutely. And it doesn't make it any easier to cope, hearing
that filthy stuff spouted by a whey-faced little prick in one's
own
sitting room.' She went into the kitchen. 'If you want ice, come
and
get it. I forgot to put it out.'
  Lea closed the dish-washer, set the switch to 'FULL WASH',
  waited for the bubble and humming. put the packet of
washing-salt
  away.
  'God! But he made me angry.' she said.
  Nettles was still in his chair at the table tracing an abstract
  pattern with a spoon on the cloth. 'Oh my dear. It really isn't
very
  unusual. you know. That hatred. his hatred. Look at Britain.
  Catholic against Protestant. whites against the Pakistanis.
It's a
  worldwide manifestation. Hindu against Muslim, Greek against
  Turk. . . and what about the wreckage of Iran at this moment?
I Sect against sect. tribe against tribe. . . all in the name of
God.
i
  Suspicion. hatred. jealousy, intolerance. It is not just the
White
  Rat's prerogative. And he doesn't stand for all America. Yet.
at
  least.'
  Lea was leaning against the dresser, arms folded. 'Suppose
you're
  right. Just gets my blood raging. . . anyway. . . anyway. . .'
she
  spread her arms before her. 'I loved the rest of the evening.
All that
  stuff Jonathan carted in. . . madness.'
  'One could hardly call two excellent bottles of Mouton Cadet
  madness. I was simply delighted.'
  'But the asparagus. What shall we do with that? Absurdly
extravagant.'
  'I really don't much care for it in bottles. do you?'
  'Loathsome. They looked like terrible laboratory specimens.
Something obscene, in pickle.'
  `Graphic. We can put them with my sorting-out stuff. Someone
might care for them.'
  'Take them down to Irina with the rest of the things. why not?
She'd love them.'
  'And the tea, two pounds of Jackson's best. . . we'll never use
it,
will we ? '
  `Never. And the books? Take the books?'
  'And the skillet? Perhaps it's a bit heavy for them. but I
really
can't cart it all the way back to Fitzroy Square.'
  'I can't even carry it with two hands. . . what about Grant's
tomb?'
  Nettles shook his head. got up from his chair. 'What, indeed.'
  'I can't see Irina throwing up her hands in delight when she
sees
that.' She took up the marmalade jar, licked her fingers.
  `I think she might quite like the asparagus and the tea and
the books. . . I'll put them all together in a couple of boxes
and we
can take them over this afternoon. They can sort it out for them-
selves. '
  'What time is Jonathan coming?' Lea screwed on the lid of the
marmalade jar.
  'After lunch. . . three-ish.'
  'You are sure. aren't you, that you don't mind me taking the
car?'
She closed the cupboard door over the worktop.
  'Sure. Jonathan has never been to Irina's. He's curious to see
the
place before it tumbles into the sea. . . no. you take it. Get
your teeth
looked at. '
  'Tooth. . . it's just that I don't want an abscess blowing up
somewhere over the Atlantic, you know? An abscess is no laughing
matter, especially on a long-haul flight.'
  'Painful: You didn't say. my darling.'
  'Lurking. I should have gone in London before I left. Such a
rush.'
  'Well. rush off now. I'm in good hands.'
  'That bloody White Rat driving you. Intolerant halfwit. I
worry. . .' She took the napkin, shook the pieces of egg-shell
into
the trash-can under the sink.
  Nettles straightened the tablecloth, brushed up some crumbs.
replaced a bowl of fruit in the centre. hitched his trousers. 'I
don't
imagine that his intolerance will interfere with his driving.
Don't
fuss.'
  Lea opened the front of the wall-clock, advanced the hands five
minutes. `This is slow, did you know? I'm not fussing. by the
way.
Seething. That's all.'
  'Waste of energy. '
  `I'll go up and dress. Lunch with Sybil Thingummy before the
dentist. . . at E1 Padrino. I'd better find something suitably
Beverly
Hills to wear. Pucci and Gucci. right?'
  'Shouldn't have thought it would matter if you had gone
there stark naked. It's so dark you have to take a torch to read
the
menu. '
  'Well. I'll go anyway. And there's ham. lettuce, tomatoes in
the
ice box.'
  Nettles came across to the door. hands on his hips. `I know,
sweet
child, I know. I do wish that you'd get it into your head that
I have
lived here, quite alone. for a year and managed perfectly
splendidly.'
  Lea laughed. 'Omelettes. And chilli beans on toast.'
  'Very filling. Not as good as a pair of kippers, I agree. but
filling.'
  'And there's a bit of old Brie from last night.'
  She leant towards him, kissed him lightly on the cheek. For an
instant he held her. let her go.
  `I'm a pretty good hand at a Bloody Mary. too. Full of
vitamins.'
  She turned away; he watched her cross the hall. start up the
stairs. Bent his head. Thumped the wall under the ticking clock
with a closed fist. Wretchedly.

  Mouse was coming down the wide staircase with Irina's modest
breakfast on a tin tray, which had just been rejected by a slow
shake
of the head, eyes closed with pain. when the telephone rang.
  It stopped her with a start of fright.
  She set the tray on the step on which she stood. then hurried
down to the china-cat-cluttered table in the hall below.
  'Countess Miratova's residence.'
  'Is this she?'
  'No. No. the Countess is unwell. She is in bed.'
  'Who is this I am speaking with: ' It was a woman's voice.
Brisk, high-pitched.
  'Her. . . um. . . her companion.'
  'Miss Ivanova. Right?'
  Mouse fingered the little icon on a chain at her neck.
  'Yes. Yes, that's right. Can I help you. Who is it%'
  'Tell me. what is the matter with her% She sick%'
  'Yes. In great pain. With her back. She won't even accept the
breakfast I. . .'
  The brisk voice cut in sharply. 'It is very important that I
speak
with her. '
  'But it's not possible!'
  'Listen, I have a personal message for her. understand?
Personal.'
  'Are. excuse me for asking, but are you from the Bureau: '
  There was a moment's silence. blankness: a hand had covered the
mouthpiece at the other end.
  The voice resumed. less urgently. more dismissively. 'I have
to
meet with her. I have something important to say.'
  Mouse. was standing on tiptoes: a thing she often did when she
was using the telephone and when she was frightened. The position
was one of profound anxiety, she looked poised to flee. Suddenly
she
regained courage. She was in sole charge. There could be no help
from the Countess. She stood back on her heels.
  'It is quite impossible. She can hardly move a finger. her back
is
hurting her dreadfully. she couldn't meet you. or even speak to
you.
I'm sorry.'
  A silence. The hand smothering the mouthpiece.
  The voice again. `Right. Can you%'
  'I%' said Mouse in bewilderment. 'Do what: '
  `meet with me% I will give you the message and the. . . uh. .
. the
package which I have for her.'
  'Where: I could meet you. yes. But where and when. please: '
  'You know Venice: Right after the Santa Monica city limits.
Take
the Ocean Highway. Be there at ten o'clock. okay%'
  'Be where% I don't know anywhere in Venice.'
  The voice was stiff with impatience. 'Ten this morning. You
have
two hours.'
  'I can't leave her alone in this house!'
  'There's a parking lot right between Ozone and Dudley on Ocean
Front, will you write that down?'
  'I don't have a pencil.'
  'It has a big mural right in-back of it. Wall of a restaurant.
A
wave. all blue and white. you can't miss it. It's the famous
Hokusai
wave, you know?'
  'No.'
  `Well, that's what it is. Blue and white. A wave. A sea wave.
Okay? I'll meet you at the doorway of the restaurant, it's right
on
the corner. a one-storey building with a blue and white wave
painted on it, and the restaurant is called Saigon. . . try and
remember: '
  'But I won't know what you look like. . .'
  For the first time the voice showed a trace of pleasantness.
if not
kindness. `I know you. Miss Ivanova. Just stand there. I'll find
you.'
  The line went dead.
  Mouse replaced the receiver, trailed a finger across a dusty
china
cat. put her hands to her face with a leap of fear.
  'I know you,' the voice had said. Who was it? How do they
know me? I have never met anyone from the Bureau, that I know
of. . . what else do they know? What shall I do% Oh! Help me,
someone help me! I'm too old, I don't know what to do. I can't
leave this house. 'I know you.' the woman had said. Why? Who?
Please someone help me. She's ill. Please help me. Please! I'm
so afraid.

  She had opened the front door cautiously. chain in place: he
stood
on the top step. the white car glimmering in the sun behind him,
golden hair blowing in the wind. Blood on his face. his lip cut.
Tieless.
  'Irina's out. I saw her leave in a car.' he said.
  'She's gone for a trip. They took her to Santa Barbara. A motor
trip.'
  'Can you help me% Please help me. Mouse. I'm so afraid.'
  She removed the chain from the door. opened it wide: he came
into the hall, his white suit crumpled. shoes covered in dust.
  'What has happened! Mr Arlington. . . what happened: You are
bleeding.'
  'Bleeding: '
  'Your face. It's cut.'
  He touched his face with a shaking hand. 'Help me. please. I
am
so afraid. '
  Mouse clasped her hands tightly together. 'What can I do? Come
in, come in. . .'
  'I am in desperate trouble. desperate. Please, ?þlouse. I've
come to
you.'
  'I'll help, I'll try. You know that I will.'
  Suddenly he turned on the step, reached back and took her by
the wrist. 'Come. Come quickly!'
  He dragged her down the steps, her glasses waggling, apron
fluttering in a sharp wind from the sea. She cried out in muffled
protest.
  'No one must know. No one. They could send me to jail.'
  Mouse tried to pull back.
  'To prison! What has happened. what have you done% Tell me!
My hand is hurting.'
  At the back of the white car he stopped, let her go, swung open
the boot with a quick, vicious throw: it sprang upwards.
  `I could be sent to jail.' His eyes were glowing, pupils wide
like
those of a dog's caught in headlights.
  'See?' He pulled her closer.
  She looked into the open boot, opened her mouth to scream as
his hand clamped across it, jerking her head roughly against his
chest. He held her tightly until she stopped struggling. Her
glasses
fell to the gravel: then he let her go.
  She stood perfectly still. arms at her sides. hair blowing in
little
spikes about her head. tears streaming down her face. He stooped,
retrieved the glasses. handed them to her.
  'I'm so afraid. Mouse. Please help me. Please.'
  'What did you do?'
  She put on the glasses, wiped her nose on the back of her hand.
`What happened% What did you do: ' Her voice was as soft, as low,
as that of a conspirator. 'What did you do?'
  'I hit her with the car. . . she ran out from a track
somewhere.
I didn't see her. The car hit her. . . went bump. It just went
bump.
When I ran back she was lying there. She's dead.'
  'Little. So o little.'
'No one saw it. Help me to hide her. please?'
  Mouse looked up at him slowly. hands to her mouth in disbelief.
`Hide her? We must take her to a hospital. . . a doctor.'
  'She's dead. No one must know. I'd be sent to prison. There is
Alice, my children. . . No one saw us. It was way off. up in the.
. .
up in the scrub. . . she just ran in front of me. . . there was
no one
else, no one saw. I waited. Mouse. I waited to see if there was
anyone
with her, but she was alone, so no one will know, no one could
have
seen. . . it was a lonely place.' He spoke in a rapid monotone.
  'You killed her.'
  `By accident. She was running loose. I don't know who she is.
lots
of kids like her. . . freeway trolls. No one knows. I must hide
her.'
  'Not here! No, no. Not here! Never, never. Not here!'
  'Mouse, dear Mouse. I am your friend. remember. I am your good
friend who loves you. Now I come to you in desperation, help me.
Just for one day. . . I am pleading. Give me time to think what
to
do. just for a little while. please? Oh God. Mouse. I'm so
afraid.'
  Her voice regained strength. `Bring her into the house quickly.
I don't want to look. I don't want to see. Wrap her in the
travelling
rug, cover her up, don't let me see anything. Just come into the
house. follow me. I'll show you where, but you must do it by
yourself.' She turned quickly. half ran, half walked into the
house,
across the big hall, to a far door which she unlocked and swung
wide. snapping on a light at the side which lit steps down to the
furnace room.
  She looked back as she heard him crossing the gravel driveway.
There is nothing to be afraid of: nothing. He is simply carrying
a
bunched-up old travelling rug: nothing unusual at all. She took
the
key from the cellar door. put it in her apron pocket, looked up
again
as he reached the steps to the house and a thin black arm slid
through a fold in the tartan rug, a lifeless hand dangling like
a dead
flower.
  Mouse looked away, smothering a cry of anguish. hurried into
the shadowy sitting room: stood bowed in grief.
  A crack of sticks, the brushing of ice-heavy leaves, a distant
cry
of shrill alarm. the slow. rhythmic flapping of the wings of a
crow
across the wide white field.
  'It's done.' he said, standing in the doorway. 'It's done.'
  'What have you done?' She could not look at him.
  'A trunk. There's a big cabin trunk there. Luggage. boxes.'
  'You must take her away. You cannot leave her there. Soon, you
promise me % '
  'I promise. '
  She gave him the key from her apron pocket. 'Lock the door. I
will not.'
  'I must clean my shoes. My face. . .'
  'In the kitchen. I'll get a clean towel.'
  'They are only scratches. . . nothing more. Just little
scratches.'
  'Go and lock the door, and bring me the key,, she said.
'Please.
please. bring me the key.'

  Beyond Ocean Front Walk and the ugly, squat buildings zig-
zagged with fire escapes lay the beach, beyond that the sea: grey
and fiat like washing-up water in the early sunlight. A clatter
of
children rattled past her on skateboards. a black youth. slender
as
a stick, waltzed and spun on roller skates, naked to the waist,
his legs in zebra-patterned tights, one hand clasped to his head-
phone.
  The Promenade was waking up to the new day: out on the sands
two people jogged with slow deliberation, a group of Hell's
Angels
threw stones for a dog, opened cans of Pepsi Cola. wrestled good-
naturedly. and a woman in shorts. high heels and a floral turban
walked past, with a parrot on her shoulder, reading a Bible aloud
to no one in particular.
  The air smelt sweet, salt. with a strain of coffee brewing and
something with which she was not familiar. Although, walking
back towards the door of the restaurant on which the blue and
þwhite wave was painted. the unfamiliar odour suddenly presented
her with a mental flash-picture of Hugo sitting at the kitchen
table.
a cigarette hanging on his lips. his fingers jabbing at a
typewriter
as Irina's recorded voice rumbled thoughtfully from the machine
at
his elbow.
  'You ask o J Schoenberg% A vibrant fun, voluble. loving. . .
always
quite at ease here. to be truthful I all ways felt that he would
have been
happier perhaps in Paris. . . or in Vienna. . . anyway, in
Europe. . . some
people, you know, do not transplant easily, he was nol such a
one. . . '
  The image died. She stood uneasily beside the closed wooden
door. the light breeze twisting and pulling at the dove's feather
in
her hat.
  'My! Isn't this a gorgeous morning? Call me Holly.'
  She was about twenty-four. red haired, pale, freckled face.
tin-
glasses. a nose like the snout of a shrew, wearing a faded green
tracksuit and sneakers. a canvas hold-all over one shoulder.
'Shall
we take a walk? Down to the ocean? Find a quiet bench in the
sun%'
  Mouse nodded. and they went together through the snaking
skaters.
  'Isn't this a wild place? Even at ten in the morning.' said
Holly.
  'I have very little time.' said Mouse. 'I must get back.'
  'Too bad she's so sick. I'm real sorry.'
  'Yes. Yesterday she was apparently quite well, but in the
evening
the pain began again.'
  'Arthritis isn't it?' said Holly swinging the canvas hold-all
onto
her other shoulder.
  'Yes. Arthritis. . . of the spine.'
  'The weather has some effect, they say. Shall we sit there? We
can
watch the sea and all the sights.'
  They crossed the boardwalk to the bench, avoiding a collision
with two white youths on roller skates in skin-tight jumpsuits
who
wheeled and swung around them. squealing shrill obscenities.
  'You said that you have a message?'
  'Correct. We would have been happier to tell her ourselves. but
since she's so sick. . .' Holly opened the hold-all. took out a
copy of
Cosmopolitan. a packet of coloured pencils, a hard-cover
children's
book. She held it up. 'Know this% Alice in Wonderland. . . it's
for my
niece. Heidi. and you know what? It is all black and white. . .
look
. . .' She riffled pages. `So I have to colour them in. I mean
you can't
give a child a book with dull old black and white pictures. so
Auntie
will colour them. The stuff she has been giving us won't really
do,
you know. Not any more.'
  'I don't know.'
  'Well. . . it's not any use. Right? Party tittle-tattle. It was
fine. they
say, in the old days. plenty going on. but now, well. . . it's
just
useless. I mean for two hundred bucks a throw. They don't want
it any more is what I am to say.'
  'Who,' said Mouse, 'are they. please?'
  Holly looked at her for a moment. `Blue, do you suppose: For
.Alice's dress: I feel blue is right. They are phasing her out.'
  `They: ' said Mouse.
  'That's who,' said Holly. choosing a blue pencil and starting
to
work on a page. ' "They" is all you need to know.'
  'I think that the Countess had a most satisfactory meeting.
only
a few days ago. in Beverly Hills. I went into town with her, she
spoke
warmly of Mr AndreHolly cut in sharply, still working busily with
her blue pencil. 'We
don't use names. No names. And he's gone East. She won't see him
again.'
  'East: New York: '
  'East.' said Holly. 'All the way East. Right across Europe.'
  `But why: What happened: He was such an old friend.'
  'I'm a messenger. That's all. I don't know why anything. All
I was
told to say was that the action is over. Party chatter and gossip
is
useless. There are more interesting things.'
  'Interesting?'
  `You heard of Silicon Valley: San Fransisco'
  Mouse shook her head.
  'Heard of microchips% You haven't. . . well. . . It would be
a lot
more use to us if she had. Parties are out, over. And all those
European immigrants. And. let's face it. Miss Ivanova. she's old
now
. . . she's had her time, we're grateful, but this is where we
part.'
  Mouse sat in silence looking out across the grey sea. A man
sitting
on the sand in front of them rolled forward slowly and began to
stand on his head.
  'Mind you.' said Holly. choosing a different pencil and
starting to
colour a tree. 'mind you. they will always keep an eye on her,
so
to speak. That's what they told me to say. But for now it's a
wrap-
up. It's been a long. long time. right% I reckon she'll be
relieved. You
tell her this: '
  'I will tell her.'
  'And,' said Holly. handing Mouse the copy of Cosmopolitan,
'this
is for her. She might enjoy the pictures. But mind how you carry
it. see: It's kinda full. A free gift sample inside, right? Don't
let it fall
out. that would be just terrible. And if you are leaving now. you
wander away. Don't bother with me. I got plenty here to keep me
a busy lady. You just walk away. Remember. they'll have an eye
on you. Just so everything is fine your end. okay: And watch the
traffic. . .' She chose a brown pencil, started to fill in a tree
trunk.
'It's really rough at this time. on a Monday morning.'
  Her head was low over her work.
  Mouse held the magazine. smoothed the bright cover with gloved
hands. Through the glossy paper she could feel a thin package.
  'Good day,' she said. getting to her feet.
  Holly did not look up. waved the brown pencil briefly. 'Have
a
nice ride home, now.'
  Mouse walked slowly back to the parking lot in the sunlight.
The
woman in the turban with the parrot on her shoulder walked past.
the Bible held close to her breast. Mouse noticed. without
surprise.
that the woman's arms were tattooed with hearts and anchors, and
that she had a thick black moustache.

  Lea swung Nettles's rented Buick through the ornate black and
gold wrought-iron gates of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. taking her
place in line with the Rolls-Royces, Mercedes, Bentleys and
Cadillacs. moving slowly, in the lunch-time rush. towards the
marble
steps and the imposing top-hatted black gentleman in a long
scarlet
coat who would have the cars parked, with shrill blasts from his
whistle. and direct the occupants to their luncheons.
  This time next week, she thought. inching past dusty tubs of
ferns. chrysanthemums and a couple of Californian pears in full
blossom, garlanded all about with a thousand winking fairy-lights
as if the flowers which they bore were insufficient. this time
next
week I'll be back.
  Queen Alexandra's. How strange. Weird. Among all this glitter.
Unreal. Back to Auditory Sequential. Bodily Coordination. Audio
Visual and the rest of my daily patter. To canteen meals on tin
trays.
white overalls. instant coffee in plastic mugs, the wide,
uncomprehending eyes of my bewildered children, the laughter and
crispness
of nurses. the smell of floor polish and Dettol. A long. long way
away
from here. I have missed them. I miss them all. I want to go
back.
The day of the locust is really over now, I want to go back to
"the
other me". And Jonathan. Jonathan Pool.
  She had drawn abreast of the top-hatted gentleman. who summoned
an attendant with a blast from his silver whistle. screamed
  orders. bade her 'Have a nice day, now!' as she started up the
steps
  banked high with poinsettia. geranium, palms and pink-and-white
  striped azaleas.
  A silver-garnished Mexican saddle stood, rather improbably, at
  the entrance of El Padrino's which was piled with pyramids of
more
  ferns and potted plants and attended by a vaguely harassed
waiter
  holding a menu before him the size of a sail.
  Yes indeedy. Miss Witt had arrived. She was at her table. Would
she come along, please?
  She stepped into apparent night. Followed him blindly past a
long
bar which. as her eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. she saw to
be thronged by middle-aged men in blue or grey alpaca suits,
pressing anxiously about it like ants around a sugar cube. On
beyond crammed tables at which chattering women bobbed and
pecked towards each other: hens at a corn bowl. All of them, for
reasons best known to themselves. wearing dark glasses and
gulping down Martinis with the reckless frenzy and determination
of a
group suicide-pact. At the far end of the room. sitting hunched
alone at an empty table in a small alcove. a cluster of dried
gourds
and corn-heads hanging above her. Sybil. a fat red candle burning
before her in a circle of light. an opened bottle of wine.
  'No. You were not late. I was early. God knows how! And I hate
to sit alone in a crowd like this. But they gave me the best
table.
a bottle of vino. and a candle so we can read the menu. You need
a big drink. right?'
  And Jonathan. Oh! Jonathan Pool.
  'Desperate for one. Vodka tonic. no ice.'
  They ordered the drink. ordered their meal.
  'Your tooth aching: Or merely weary?'
  'No. Neither. Bemused.'
  'As well you might be. Listen. Lea, to the sound of the hub of
the
world turning! Wildly sophisticated. They write the dialogue as
they go along. Improvisation.'
  At the nearest table a woman. immense dark glasses glinting.
obese body shaking like Jello beneath a crimson chifTon caftan.
rattled ice cubes in an empty glass. leant towards two eager
companions.
  '. . . and you want to know: Brooke Leger peaked in the
'seventies
and it's been downhill ever since. She just went splat! Blew it!
I
should know. I'm her agent for godssakes: I couldn't give her
away
with a Hershey Bar!'
  One of the companions, also in dark glasses, wearing a
too-tight
silk jersey top through which her nipples thrust like fingertips.
nodded: drained her glass.
  `You are so damned right, Patty. Right. Blew it! That "sneak"
bombed in Boston, Tuesday like you never saw. The biggest
hatreacher since Mimi croaks in Boheme. And you know something
Patty% I'm glad. I say it aloud. I'm glad! She was getting so
damned
Scarlett O'Hara she made me spit.'
  The chiffon caftan rattled ice cubes angrily. 'Something else
I
know% Real goodie. The Kuntz Bureau is dropping Keir Saxon. How
does that grab you: '
  `Keir Saxon! The rogue male?'
  'Him. Found in a red-hot clinch with one of the teamsters. in
his
own trailer right out on the back-lat. Kissy-kissy stuff. If you
get
what I mean?'
  The woman in silk jersey wailed. hand to mouth. 'I do not
believe

  `I just heard. Judy.'
  'Keir Saxon with a feller!'
  'Well, you know. He is English. . .' the woman rattled the
glass
hard.
  `And they are dropping him, Saxon?'
  'Judy. listen to me. The Kuntz Bureau is selling virility. What
happens to their credibility%'
  She looked irritatedly round the room.
  'Well.' said Judy. 'What can you expect. Europeans. Oh God! And
all the English are lushes or gay. They talk so damned
pinch-assed.
What can you expect%'
  'I got a new client.' said the chiffon caftan. 'European. Ulla
Binder
from Berlin, Germany. A really great actress. We'll fix the
accent
and take care of the name. More Anglo-Saxon. She'll tear this
town
apart. I'm telling you. just tear it apart.' She looked around
furiously.
  'Where the fuck's that goddamned garþon?'

  Lea spread a hand across her eyes, shook her head. stared up
into
the beamed ceiling.
  Auditory Sequential. Audio Visual. Bodily Coordination, Visual
Perceptual. My language. As strange to them as theirs is to me.
But
kinder.
  She turned to Sybil, saw that she was smiling.
  'I got proposed to last night. How's that for swank?'
  'Ah! Great. I guess. . . ummm. . . I guess Jonathan P?'
  'You guess right.'
  Waiters surrounded them, set down platters, changed spoons and
forks. fussed expertly. admonished them to 'have a nice time,
now'.
melted away into the dark.
  From the bar came a sudden burst of male laughter. a round of
scattered applause.
  Sybil observed her lunch with mild dismay. A half pineapple.
sliced lengthways. piled with assorted fruit.
  'So this is what it looks like. You know? I've often wondered.
It's
like one of Carmen Miranda's head-dresses; remember?'
  'No.' Lea forked at a plate of cottage cheese and chopped
chives.
`No. I don't remember. But it's wildly exotic.'
  `So was Carmen Miranda. She too long ago for you, umm?'
  'I don't remember, sorry. A singer. something%'
  'No. sweet. Not something. A big star in the forties. Cuban.
. .
Portuguese, I don't know. How I envy your ignorance. It means
Youth!'
  'I'm really not that young.'
  'If you are too young for the forties. honey. you are young.
Youthful anyway.'
  She laid her spoon beside her plate of spilling fruits. 'So.
You
finally got a proposal: A week after meeting the gentleman. You
twist his arm or something?'
  'No. Nudged him. He'd forgotten. Looked rather startled when
I
suggested it. very tactfully.'
  `Well. it's a startling thing to have to do. Propose. I mean,
it's a
definite declaration. don't you think? Binding. Agree: '
  'Binding: ' Lea looked suddenly worried, put down her fork,
took
a sip of her vodka and tonic. 'Yes. I suppose that it is.
Binding. . .
well. it's binding until it's broken. isn't it: '
  'Don't speak of breaking anything twelve hours after you got
proposed to. for God's sake! I never got one single proposal in
all my
life. do you know that? The first gentleman I married just said,
"How's about it, popsie?" which was the nearest he ever got to
anything remotely romantic. and the second one said. "You wanna
we should get hitched%" ' Sybil picked up a fork, skewered a
bottled
cherry. chewed it. 'He didn't speaka da English so good. What
possessed me. for Christ's sake: They were both disaster. No love
no
nickels. Oh well. Lust. sheer lust.'
  'And there was never anyone else: '
  'No. No. I had to shell out both times. I learned my lesson.
I reckon
though. that if someone had come up to me and knelt down. I'm
wild about the kneeling part, and said. "Sybil Witt. would you
do
me the great honour of marrying me?" I'd have said "Yes" if he'd
been Bluebeard. Know what I mean? It's a sign that your man has
considered it carefully and made up his mind. He wants you. Wants
you. That is just about the most important question a woman can
get asked. It's inspiring.'
  `Inspiring?'
  'Which is more than I can say for Carmen Miranda's hat here.'
  'A little daunting too, I suppose.'
  'Daunting% How?'
  `Well. as you said. It's binding. I suppose. I hadn't really
thought
of it in that light.'
  'From now on perhaps you'd better.'
  'Yes. I was thinking of your word "want". That has different
connotations. doesn't it%'
  'Well, not in my book. Just marriage.'
  'It could be just physical?'
  'Oh sure. . . but that doesn't seem to me the way Jonathan
meant
it.'
  `No. It was all gloriously right last night. Two bottles of
wine,
hands held, lots of laughter. I mean. such happiness. Amazing.'
  'And: '
  'And then this morning. driving into town, I got this terrible
surge of panic.'
  'What happened? The Cold Light of Dawn: Regrets%'
  `No. Neither of those things. I just. . . oh. bloody hell. .
.' She began pushing her glass about the table in little circles,
one hand
supporting her chin. hair falling across her face, brow furrowed
in
concentration.
  Sybil watched her shrewdly for a moment. Broke the look.
Prodded carelessly among her tumbled fruits.
  `So what panicked you?'
  'Well. I suddenly realized that there would have to be
breakfast
tables without him. Nettles. Do you know what I mean%'
  'Geoffrey Nettles! '
  `I'm using the breakfast table as a kind of symbol.'
  'Thank the Lord!'
  `And I realized this morning that after all these years
together.
I would miss him dreadfully. Miss his donnish little jokes about.
oh
. . boiled eggs, the news. . . even the weather. . . you see?'
  `I would kill for less.'
  'I'm explaining so badly. I had a sudden grab off right.'
  'Do you have breakfasts of this hideously cosy nature. as a
matter
of course?'
  `No. Of course not! We live our own lives. go our own ways.
Most
of the time. But I realized that he'll have to go. After
marriage.'
  'Well, for God's sake! He couldn't hang around as a surrogate
father-in-law. could he?'
  'No. of course not! But then there's another thing. My job. My
work. I love it. I am very good at it.'
  'Jonathan has his work too.'
  'That's the whole point. '
  'Not a bad one I'd say.'
  'He writes. '
  'Some men embezzle, chase ladies. rob banks. You're lucky.'
  `He writes. Sybil. For months sometimes. Even as long as a
year.
He told me.'
  'So?'
  'Well, when he gets the urge he just clams up and pisses off
to
his shack, or whatever it is. on a hilt in Provence. He told me
to
expect that.'
  `Fair. So what: '
  'Well. what do 1 do during this gigantic pregnancy% What do I
do while he wallows through his period of gestation: What do I
do: Pull a rug, Keep bees: What would I do sitting on some God-
  forsaken hill in Provence: Make jam: Pick posies of wild
flowers for dried arrangements% He's already had one wife who did
that kind
  of thing and she didn't last very long. He's really not keen
on that
  sort of capering. But if I stayed on at the hospital. did my
job. fulfilled
myself, well. it wouldn't be marriage. Would it: '
  'No. Not in my terms. But I'm old-fashioned, in spite of my
  dizzying stardom and careful make-up. You mean you'd rather be
a career-lady than Jonathan's wife%'
  'No I don't. But. . '
  'There can't be a "but". No room for "but". Lea. Now listen.
Just
  take a glance around this room, look at all the ladies who are
  lunching and munching. Together. Girls-time, career-ladies. No
  husband in sight. no husband they give a damn about. if they
even
  have one someplace. Look at them all. Screaming over the third
' Martini, the second tequila. stuffing down the shrimp salad.
the
  chilli con carne. depending on the calories they watch like
Stock
  Exchange results. What do you suppose they've done this
morning:
  A couple of deals? Made a few phone calls? These militant
female
  agents, vice-president ladies of this company or that company?
Had
  a massage, shopped at Lord and Taylor's with their credit
cards,
  been to ballet class to keep their legs from atrophying under
their
  desks. sold a hook to CBS or NBC, fired or hired an actor. You
want
!, that% That kind of life? Arid. barren? Career-girl. Full
stop.'
  'god no! It wouldn't be like that. I work in a hospital. With
' children. . .
' 'Then you go work with children on a hill in Provence. while
your
  husband slaves to keep you-all. Your own children, Lea.'
  'And give it all up%'
  'Those things you've mentioned. Snug little brekky-wekkies with
Geoffrey Nettles. the hospital. . . okay. that too. If Jonathan
wants you, he needs you. You go with him. and be grateful you got
asked. Just in time.'
  Sybil pushed her overflowing platter away. poured herself a
glass
of wine. 'You asked me. I've told you. You got it sockko.'
  'Sockko. all right.'
  `You-all leave in a day or so, right? Enjoy what's left of this
weird
town. it's far too soon for doubts.'
  'No doubts. truthfully. Worries. . .'
  'They'll go as soon as you clap your eyes on him again. As long
as you love him.'
  'I love him.'
  'Then God alone knows why I've wasted my breath on impassioned
speeches! Well, I do in a way. . . you scared me half to
death for a second. Alice Arlington is my dearest friend. I'd
cross
deserts for her. but she is determined on Career. She'll end up
like
these creatures gobbling away around us. Sitting with the gals,
chomping diet-food in dark glasses in a dark room. believing it's
all
she ever wanted. "Career" comforts the empty heart. Lea.'
  A figure was suddenly beside their table. Sybil squinted into
the
gloom above her.
  'Do I know you?' she said.
  The figure leant down. the features of his face caught in the
light
of the table candle. '
  `Is Dubrovnik., he said.
  'You make a swell silhouette.' said Sybil. `Grab a chair, or
can't
you stay?'
  'For one moment.' He pulled up a chair, took Sybil's hand.
kissed
it. bowed to Lea. 'Can you believe? I am with my agent. Very
famous. very powerful. He is going to find peoples who will give
me
much money. Is Mr Minsk. from New York. you know this man?'
  'Manny Minsk! Sure I know him. You are in good hands, Dubrovnik
dear, he'd screw money from the Sphinx.'
  'This morning he came in. He goes to the opening of the new
French movie.'
  `He'd go to the opening of a refrigerator.'
  'Is such a little money I must have. Enough only to do the,
what
you call. recce: For the locations in Brazil.'
  'When will you go: ' said Lea.
  `Depends. Is depending on Mr Minsk. Soon I would like. I am
restless in this place. in this town. I would like it to start.
In Brazil.'
  'You're just trading jungles, honey.' said Sybil.
  'Everyone seems to be leaving.' said Lea. 'The party's over.'
  'Except Alice.' said Sybil. 'She stays. Her choice. I tried to
make
her come East with me, but no way. The kids' schooling. the
career
. . Useless.'

  Dubrovnik shrugged cheerfully. spread his arms wide as if to
embrace the whole noisy room.
  'Is a sensible woman. Alice. you know this? I think what she
do
is right.'
  'I don't,' said Sybil. `I just don't. This town is too local.
too small.
too far away from life. She'd have a lot more in New York, it's
really
alive there. And more fun socially. But as you know. she is so
damned stubborn. she won't budge.'
  Dubrovnik rubbed his chin anxiously, nodded. eyes veiled with
discomfort. `Well, what Alice says she will do. so she will do.
She
is very. . . what you say?'
  'Very.' said Sybil.
  'And I worry much for her. This you must know. But what to do?
She thinks only of Hugo, finally. He is between Alice and all the
world. Always. I worry for her. also for the children. They are
all
close together. is right?'
  'Sure they are. Alice has her life and you have yours. That's
what
you are saying, I think?'
  'I am saying that. Yes. We are creative people. If you do not
create, therefore you die finally. Is not this right?'
  'Very right. Oh. very right. Of course you can "create" a
family,
a partnership. that's creation too. But you have to go off and
"create" in Brazil. that's it?'
  'Is so. But I worry to leave her. I worry all the time. Very
much.
Poor Alice. . .'
  'Never you mind.' said Sybil dryly. `Never you mind, old chum.
It'll pass. you'll see. It'll pass.'

  'Bells,' whispered Irina to the empty room. 'Why do I hear
bells%'
She closed her eyes. lying on her back in the high wooden bed.
The
wan sun filtered through long, dusty lace curtains. throwing
uneven patterns across the worn carpet. the heavy oak wardrobe,
the back of a cracked leather buttoned chair.
  Why do I hear bells% Ah no! Not elfin bells. . . not sweet
bells from
childhood. Bells with sonorous tongues, solemn. deep. throbbing.
The bell of St John. On the last day of Lent. I remember, oh, I
remember! The single mournful sound: one stroke, to signal the
Resurrection. Reverberating, wavering, across the city: calling
us to worship the miracle. Summoning us: summoning by bells. Am
  I being summoned by bells. Hah! I who cannot even move: cannot
even get to my commode. Helpless. The hideous, ultimate
humiliation. the decaying of the body, the indignity. the
squalor: to foul
oneself helplessly. Go away. bells: I cannot heed you. I cannot
heed
you. I am old. I decay, I am cast aside. I rot.
  Her hand clutched the bundle of dollar bills which Mouse had
brought from her meeting with the shrew-nosed girl. Five hundred
dollars. The pay-off: the price they give to. what was the
saying: to
phase one out. An old cog which can no longer function
economically, function at all. It was not my fault. I still have
my eyes, my
ears. I watched and noticed; I sifted and collected. I gave them
good
measure. It was modest. but it was professional. It is not my
fault
  that the times changed. the city altered, the demands grew
greater.
  What are microchips to me!
  In the house the telephone rang.
  Irina opened sunken eyes. Stared at the ceiling. Waited. Closed
her eyes.
  Not these bells. I dislike these belts. Telephone bells bring
worry
and distress to this house. Dismissal. `Phasing out'. Here is
your fee.
go away. But we shall keep an eye on you, just in ease. In case
of
what% Ever since the Golden Man was killed in his beautiful car
I
have dreaded this bell. Why have they cast me aside? Tomorrow I
may be well again. I am reliable: I can keep silent. I guard my
secrets. I know when to hold my tongue.
  Mouse cautiously put her head round the door. tiptoed towards
the high bed.
  'What is it%' said Irina. her eyes still closed. 'Tell me.'
  'The English man. Mr Nettles. . . it's not bad, not worrying.
To
remind us that he is coming to see us. That is all.'
  'And you said%'
  Mouse. who was exhausted from her journey to Venice and back,
and who had tried desperately to make her mistress take
nourishment other than the five strong vodkas on which she had
insisted,
shook her head wearily.
  'I said to come, Countess. I could not be impolite. He has
gifts
for us.'
'I cannot see him. I am ill.'
  'Of course. He knows. I told him.'
  'I have not got my teeth in. I could not see him thus, and I
will
not put them back.'
  'I understand. I will see him. just briefly. . . he does not
want to
stay, only to leave some things.'
  'What kind of things, pray?' Irina's voice was high. light,
fretful.
  'Oh. . . oh I think things he has no room to take back to
England.
Books, I know. Tea. . . we need tea you see. . .'
  'For a packet of tea we must be thrown into turmoil?'
  'Not turmoil. He will go directly. I am certain. He is a most
thinking, generous man.'
  Irina raised the bundle of dollar bills in a trembling hand.
`We
must put these away.' She opened her eyes for a moment, closed
them quickly at the sight of Mouse's haggard face above her.
'Yesterday would have been a better time for this abundance. I
was
in great pain. but I behaved well. You noticed?'
  'I noticed. Countess. No one could have guessed.'
  'One has been trained not to show one's feelings publicly.
Never
to embarrass one's guest. That would not be proper. Although, to
be sure, Mr Boris was your guest. Not mine. . .'
  'He came to see you, Countess! Not to see me.'
  Irina kept her eyes closed. her hands on the dollars. `Pre-
sumptuous. Mouse. You invited him. without my permission.'
  'But you were pleased! You were pleased!'
  `I was forced to be pleased. Forced to exert myself even in
pain.
and now you can see what it has done. Here I lie. here I lie. .
.'
  'Countess! You cannot blame me! You cannot blame me. . .'
  Irina opened her eyes, grey as flints, hollow with pain. 'I can
blame whom ever I wish. I am ill. I will use the commode, give
me
the vodka. '
  Mouse. her hands shaking with anger and distress. poured a
generous measure from the bottle on the bedside table. gave it
to
her mistress who took it eagerly in both hands and swallowed the
drink in one gulp. She lay back. exhausted by the effort. eyes
shut.
  pale tongue licking slowly. caressingly. over thin lips, the
glass tilted
  loosely in her hand.
  'One feels the fire steal into one's belly. The pain eases.
That's better. '

  Mouse attempted to remove the glass. but the wrinkled hand held
it tight.
  'No! No! I,et me be! I am ill-tempered. Mouse. Excuse me. I
have
no one but you in my pain. . . no one else. I am ill-tempered.
The
commode: '
  mouse dragged the heavy chair-commode to the bed, lifted the
wickerwork top. 'It is ready. Shall we try%'
  `Cshe'll try. Yes. must try.' Irina raised her glass. ' A
little more. a
little more. A teeny vodka for Irina.'
  `Oh! you have had a great deal. . .'
  'I have a great deal of pain. . give it to me. . give it for
courage.'
  Mouse refilled the glass. watched her mistress drink, took the
empty glass from the relaxing grip.
  `Let us try. Countess. . . let us try together.'
  She pulled back the runkled sheets, tried to prise the dollars
from
the hand which still held them.
  'No. No. I will keep them. . .'
  'You must use both hands. Countess. both hands. Let me put the
money here, beside your bottle. . . there. You see? It can come
to
no harm. Now we try. We must try. . .'
  Irina moved achingly into a half sitting position, head down.
arms loose, let herself be half dragged. half pulled. to the edge
of the
bed. where Mouse took hold of her legs and swung them over the
side.
  Irina's calloused feet hung loose like a wax doll's, above the
shabby carpet.
  `Put them to the floor,' said Mouse. 'I will help you. . .'
With all
her strength she eased the heavy body onto the commode.
  Irina sat slumped. shaking her head, whimpering.
  'So brave!' said Mouse. when she had got her breath back.
  'I am a cog. Nothing but a cog. A useless cog.'
  'No. no,' said Mouse, smoothing the rumpled bed. shaking
pillows. 'No. no. Countess. you are very brave.'
  'I fouled myself.'
  'Because 1 was not here.' said Mouse. 'I went to Venice. for
the
money. I prayed that you would sleep. . .'
  'In my own filth.'
  'Shhsh. . . Soon tidy.'
  'I cannot manage on my own.'
  'Soon tidy. Everything was done. . .'
  `The mind remains, the body fails. God is cruel.'
  'What a thing to say! Tomorrow you will feel quite well again,
you will see.'
  'God is cruel. He punishes with fire.'
  'Shall we try to get back? The bed is ready. Come. . . I'll
help
you. .
  Once there again. Irina lay still: uttering little fluting
cries of
distress, like a trapped bird. Mouse busied herself with the
chamber
pot. dragged the commode away. her glasses misting with effort,
and the tears of weakness which rimmed her eyes.
  'My money.' whispered Irina. 'Give it me. Give it back to me.'
  'It is here, Countess. Beside you.'
  `People are coming. Put it away. Hide it. Hide it away.'
  Irina's speech was becoming slurred. words spilled from her
toothless mouth in splutters of spittle.
  `Where?' said Mouse. 'Where shall I hide it?' She picked up the
packet of five hundred-dollar bills. 'Where?'
  Irina's head rolled from side to side in irritation. her brow
creased
with anger. 'Hide it. The picture frame. In the picture.
Dressing-
table. There is a picture. In the back. You open it. Put it in
the back.
The dressing-table.'
  The dressing-table was a clutter of china cats, ring holders.
picture
frames of varied shapes and sizes. pots of caked face-cream.
empty
scent bottles. scatters of spilled powder and hairpins.
  'So many. So many here,' said Mouse weakly. 'There is a special
one perhaps % '
  Irina slapped the sheets with a veined hand. 'Miratov. Miratov
my
husband. Behind him. That one.'
  Mouse looked among the frames with increasing anxiety. A pair
of borzoi. a smiling young woman with a shotgun beneath a fir
tree.
a luncheon party in a garden. In a filigree brass frame standing
almost in the centre. a young man in the uniform of the Corps des
Pages: proud in his tight braided tunic. gleaming boots. white
breeches. a plumed helmet on his knees.
  'I have it,' said Mouse.
  Irina's voice was fretful, impatient. 'Miratov! Miratov! Find
Miratov ! '

  Mouse unfastened the brass clips of the faded watered-silk
panel
at the back, prised it open.
  A scrap of charred suede fell among the dried face-creams. the
figures 19 79 impressed in gilt. Inside, flat against the back
of
Miratov's portrait, a half scorched, heat-buckled. three-quarter-
length Polaroid photograph of a small black girl. Thighs wrenched
apart with cords. arms pulled above her head, secured to a hook
by a
man's tie. She was naked. apart from a scarlet ladybird bracelet
on
one wrist. her child breasts jutting forward. eyes wide with
terror.
  Mouse stood as stone.
  Irina's voice came from an immense distance.
  'Have you found him? Miratov: Answer me!'
  Mouse spoke like a sleepwalker. 'So handsome. So young. So fine
in his uniform. . .'
  Irina beat her hands furiously on the sheets. dribble trembling
on
her chin. 'Not that ! Not that ! It's wrong! The wrong one! ' She
started
to weep, hiccupping, gulping for breath like a landed fish.
  Mouse looked across the dressing-table. through the blur of
lace,
into the fading light.

  He stood on the top step. The white car glimmering in the sun
behind him, golden hair blowing in the wind. Blood on his face.
his
lip cut. Tieless.
  'It wasn't true,' she said aloud. 'It wasn't true. You lied.'

  'Help me Mouse. I am desperate. She was running loose: I don't
know who she was.'
  'Oh. you lied.' said Mouse. 'You did know who she was. You
knew. ' She looked at the photograph in her hand. turned slowly
and
walked to the bed.
  Irina was sobbing. a fist crammed hard against her toothless
mouth. eyes tightly shut.
  'From the furnace: ' said Mouse quietly. 'You found this in the
furnace that day% You took this from the ashes%'
  Irina's sobs grew less. She opened her eyes. removed the fist
from
against her mouth. 'From the ashes. From the ashes. Foolish
creature! Foolish creature! The wrong frame. the wrong one.'
  'Why did you keep it. Why?'
  'To give it to him. When he came again. To give it back.'
  `He never came back.'
  'In that car. Dead in that car. That day.'
  'Why did you keep it? Something he wished to destroy? Why? Tell
me why? What for?'
  Irina folded her hands across her belly, turned her head away.
sighed. A long. shuddering sigh.
  `Why, Countess? What for?'
  Irina turned her head, looked up at Mouse, her eyes blazing
with
pain and fury.
  `Money.' she said.
  'Money?'
  'He had money. I had none.'
  'He would have paid you for this?'
  'He tried to destroy it. To destroy many of them. I saw. in the
furnace, some had not burned entirely. There were fragments. He
panicked. He was too frightened. These things do not at once all
burn up. Fragments. Obscene. Fragments. perverted things. I raked
them to ashes. Raked them to dust.'
  'And this remained. . . this one?'
  Irina's hands plucked at the bedcover.
  'Imbecile. Imbecile. The wrong frame! The wrong one. You are
a mad woman.'
  'I am not mad, Countess.'
  'Hah! All mad people deny their madness. You are mad! You think
he came to burn manuscripts? He came to destroy the evidence of
his wickedness.' She put out a withered arm. `Give it to me, give
it
. . . give it here to me.' She took the photograph, slid it
beneath the
covers. 'Get the money. Bring me my money.'
  Mouse took the dollars. scattered them slowly. like dead
leaves,
across Irina's breast.
  'Imbecile! Mad creature! Go away, go away.'
  For a moment Mouse squinted through tears about the shadowy
room. then she picked up the chamber pot and left, closing the
door
quietly behind her.
  Irina scrabbled about feebly. seeking the fallen notes. She
collected them together like a hand of cards, counted them.
pushed them under the sheets, felt the buckled photograph and
drew it up,
close to her face.
  'What did he do with you ? Where do you live% poor creature.
Poor
Alice, and Clemency and Hope! But she has a fine new bracelet.
I
found her that, eh? I found that.' She bent the photograph in two
with one hand. crushed it irþ her palm.
  'Poor child. Poor Jupiter,' she said.

  The orange Ford swung between the two brick pillars, round a
  weed-grown central flowerbed. and came to a halt at the steps.
  'Sheet!' said the White Rat softly. 'I mean this is weird. I
seen
  some crazy places but this has to be the most. Where's Dracula%
I
  never knew this place existed.'
  'It very nearly doesn't.' said Nettles, easing himself out of
the car.
  'Another torrential rainstorm and it will be quite
uninhabitable.
  It is almost on the edge of the cliff as it is.' He went round
to the
  boot.
  'Extraordinary!' said Jonathan. `A sort of wooden French
manoir,
  you know % '
  'Built, we are informed, by a very rich industrialist from
Louisiana
at the turn of the century. So your suggestion is not far off the
mark.
Definite French influence. Hence the roof, the shutters. the high
windows, the little tower. A gothic fantasy - a bastard, in fact.
I say
  . . one of you give me a hand with the junk.'
  Together they lifted three cartons from the boot.
  'No trees,' said Jonathan. 'Yucca, and dreadful poinsettias
gone
mad.'
  'And ivy. Californian ivy. . . that's prolific. There used to
be a
large cedar tree somewhere, it got blown down in a gale. which
is
why poor Irina had to string her yellow ribbons of welcome from
the poinsettias. . you see: So forlorn. Fluttering in the wind.
Snapped streamers after the ship has left. . . God!' he said.
'I'm
getting prosey. I think the desolation has something to do with
it.'
  'Yellow ribbons?' said the White Rat. 'For the hostages?'
  'Doesn't it all seem a long time ago% Six days? Jonathan, ring
the
bell, will you?'
  Mouse opened the door. looked through the narrow gap made by
the holding chain.

    '?lliss Ivanova! Nettles. do you remember? We are rather late
with
    the promised stuff... traffic on San Vicente.'
    þlouse removed the chain, opened the door. She was drawn and
    pale. fingers fidgeting at her throat. She wore a
hand-knitted
    cardigan of assorted wools and colours.
    `I hope we have not incommoded you: ' said Nettles.
    She spoke suddenly.'No. no. Not at all. The Countess is
unwell
    .. she... she can not see anyone today.'
    `We'll stay only moments. Just to put these down somewhere,
    rather heavy.'
    `Oh! Of course... of course... come with me. please excuse
the
!   kitchen. it is not as I would wish. but then I am
single-handed, you
    know... come in. come in, do.'
    She scurried about clearing space on the long kitchen table,
    pushing papers, pots. untouched trays of congealed food. to
one end.
    'I did tell you. I recall now. About the Countess. I am so
sorry you
    will not see her today. I am so sorry. But arthritis. you
know...'
    She suddenly saw a tin in one of the cartons.
    'Tea. is it? English tea%'
    `Indian. to be exact.' said Nettles, but since it is clearly
labelled
i   Jackson's of Piccadilly, I think that we can allow that it
is, in fact.
    English.'
'   'How excellent! How kind. We quite finished the last of ours
    yesterday. We had a little tea party. The Countess was
seeming to
    be quite well. we had a guest.'
    'Well, now you can have a few more parties.'
    'In St Petersburg we had them quite often, tea parties. It
was very
    fashionable.'
1   'Indeed.'
    'And shortbread too.'
    'How splendid.'
I
    'Lipton's tea. From Darjeeling. Do you know this perhaps?'
    'Ah. yes. Lipton's! Of yours Very famous.'
    'It was. of course. many years ago. When I was quite a
child.'
I   'Miss Ivanova,' said Nettles deciding to end the conversation
at
    this moment. in order to avoid the unpacking of the cartons
lest
    Jonathan should discover the two jars of asparagus beneath
a pile
    of books.'I wonder if we might prevail upon your good nature
and ask you if Mr Pool might have a quick look at the big room?
He leaves for London very shortly. It would be sad to have come
to
California and not seen the big room. Might we do so%'
  Mouse replaced the tin of tea.
  'Oh. of course! Of course! The big room. . . it is perhaps not
quite
as it looked in the happy days. but please come. . . follow me.'
She
put one hand on Jonathan's arm as they walked into the hall. 'It
is
a little dusty I'm afraid. I am often scolded.'
  'Wayne,' said Jonathan as they passed him leaning against the
kitchen doorway. 'do you mind waiting a moment or two: We
shan't be long.'
  'Okey-dokey. I'm easy. Take your time.' He wandered across the
hall out into the sunlight.
  'Now.' said Mouse. `Here we are. Of course the shutters are not
all opened I am sorry to say, my hands are very. . .' She stopped
and
pushed a chair gently into line. 'Rheumatism. so painful. But I
think
you can see well enough, and you will not see the dust.'
  Jonathan looked about him.
  'Such high ceilings!' he said. He found it difficult to make
any
other comment for the big room oppressed him; bleak, dim. Chairs
set about in a wide semicircle, empty. impersonal. A Harley
Street
waiting-room.
  'Yes. High. You don't find them today. Stravinski played this
piano. And do you know what he played? So capricious! "Three
Blind Mice". You are acquainted with this rhyme: It is English
in
origin. I believe%'
  'Yes. yes. . .' said Jonathan. ' "She cut off their tails with
a
carving knife"? That one?'
  'Correct,' said Mouse. 'But can you imagine% Stravinski playing
a children's song! It was most amusing. And this chair, you see
here,
was always for the Countess. She sat here with the tea-table
before
her. It held the samovar. . .'
  'And Brecht was here: Feuchtwanger? The Manns. . . goodness,
what splendour.'
  'Oh it was, it was. Of course, all the paintings have gone,
alas.
To New York. But oh! the conversations in this room, the wondrous
things one heard.'
  'I can well imagine.'
  'All writers and musicians. you see. We never had picture
people here. you know. Never. I was. I confess. a little sad
sometimes. It
would have been most amusing to meet Mr Charles Chaplin. I liked
him so much. So droll. And Miss Garbo. of course. But they told
me
she was rather shy.'
  Nettles. who had stayed at the door, was aware that she was
chattering. not from loneliness. as she did so often. but to
conceal
some deeper grief. Her hands. he saw. were never still.
fluttering.
or touching things: she moved her head continuously, nodding and
bobbing; and although her voice was light and pitched high, and
she spoke of amusement and of a time which she had so much loved.
her eyes were dulled, and she did not, at any time. smile.
  `Well, Jonathan. There you are. You have set foot in the big
room,
and I really think that it is time we left before the evening
traffic
starts. . . hellish. you know.'
  mouse followed them out into the hall, closed the doors
carefully.
'This district was once a very fashionable place in which to
live,' she
said. 'Most select and quiet. But things change. I fear. things
change.'
  'You have been extraordinarily kind, Miss Ivanova.' said
Nettles
as they reached the top of the steps leading to the garden. `I
really
cannot thank you enough.' He stopped as he saw Wayne coming
towards them across the gravel below.
  `The darndest thing! Do you believe it: Are you ready?' He held
up a hand. extended his index finger. a red plastic bracelet
ringing
it like a quoit. 'See this: I fixed this thing last night!
Right%' He looked
up at Jonathan.
  'Did you: Something. . . I don't recall.'
  `Sure I did. At the hArlington place, remember% The girl Hoppy.
That her name: Well. she asked me to fix it real good for her.
Too
big. she said. And goddamn it. now it's right here. in the ivy.
right
at my feet. I mean that is just amazing, man!'
  'Couldn't be the same one, surely.' said Jonathan. 'Or perhaps
the Arlington children were here today. were they?' He turned to
Mouse who was looking beyond Wayne to a distant place in
memory. 'were they%' he said quietly. 'The Arlington children%
Here%'
  Mouse turned as if he had touched her with a branding iron.
'Children: Here% No! No! No one was here today! No one in the
world came here.'

  A thin black arm slid through a fold in the tartan rug: a
lifeless
  hand dangling like a dead flower.
  'No one was here.' said Mouse.
  'Well. I fixed it just like her daddy did, she said. She
insisted. Most
  particular. Two daisies close together. okay% I took out one
ladybug,
  made it tighter. she got the two daisies right together, same
as this.
  see% Just the very same. That's why I recall it clear. Two
daisies close
  together. It's the damndest thing.'
  'Finders keepers. we say, Wayne. And we really must make a
  move. The traffic will be fearful. do come along,' Nettles
said, and
  started down the steps.
  Wayne tossed the bracelet a couple of times in his cupped hand.
  'Kinda old and scratched. Hers was real new and shiny. It isn't
the
  same. . .' He dropped it into the ivy at his feet. 'What in the
name
  of goodness would I do with a ladybug bracelet?' He nodded
briefly
to Mouse and followed Nettles to the car.
  'Thank you. most sincerely,' said Jonathan. 'And I hope the tea
is useful, that you enjoy it.'
  Mouse looked at him without expression. `We will enjoy it
greatly. You were all so kind. But no one was here. you know,
today.
No one. '
  `Goodbye. And thank you again.' Jonathan turned and went to
the car. He looked back as he ducked into his seat. Mouse half
waved. he waved back, watched as she closed the door behind her.
  They drove round the weed-hidden flowerbed. through the iron
gates and the two brick pillars onto the street. Yellow ribbons
trembling, twisting, in the leggy poinsettias.
  'You want the hotel?' said Wayne into the driving mirror.
  'No. No. Twentieth Street. Santa Monica.' said Jonathan.
  'I'm afraid it was not much of a trip, I'm sorry,' said
Nettles.
'Trying to recapture a past like that is quite hopeless. I think
if Irina
had been well. . .'
  'I really saw all I wanted to. thanks. I loathed the place if
you
want to know the truth. Can't tell you why.'
  `I didn't ask.'
  'No. but. . . I don't know. The life has gone. An undertaker's
parlour. Strange. I had the most extraordinary feeling of loss.
of
desolation. of grief. What in the name of God goes on in that
house.
I wonder: '
  'I couldn't tell. One would have to be a second Champollion to
do that.'
  `What did he do%'
  'Deciphered the Rosetta Stone, so now we can all read Ancient
Egyptian. '
  'Do you want to: '
  'Not particularly. But it would take someone like that to
decipher
the hieroglyphics written all over that house.'
  'Extraordinary feeling of evil. How strange.'
  'Oh, dear me.' said Nettles. 'You writer-fellows. Far too much
imagination. '

  'I know what ground beef and aubergines mean,' said Clemency
  as Alice pushed the supermarket trolley to the car. `It means
awful
  moussaka. And it should be lamb, not beef.'
  'Whatever, it's better'n that soup he makes.' said Hope. 'A
long
  way better. '
  'Just stop grumbling, you two, and help put these things away.'
  'Peanut oil. One Kleenex. The dreaded aubergines. What's the
cauliflower for: It's all wilted.' Clemency dropped it into a
basket.
brushed her hands on her jeans.
  'Tomorrow's lunch, that's what for,' said Alice.
  `Yeuch ! Cauliflower-awful-cheese. '
  'You don't have to eat it. Have crackers instead. With arsenic
jam.'
  'Arsenic jam! Hey that's great! Do you remember Marmite: ' said
Hope filling a second basket.
  'I do,' said Clemency. 'But you couldn't. You're too young.'
  'I do too remember! Don't I, Mom? Mother?'
  Alice slammed the boot lid, pushed the trolley into a stack of
others. 'I don't know. I hardly remember it myself. And if you
two
so dislike Dubrovnik's cooking, I have good news. You won't be
getting it for much longer. When he's gone you'll just have to
put
up with mine: lump it.'
  'Which means.' said Clemency. sliding into her seat beside
Alice.
'that we'll have to eat yards and yards and yards of spaghetti
in
tomato sauce for ever and ever amen. Oh, well. . '
  'I really could brain you two. Ungrateful. spoilt little
beasts.' She
switched on the ignition. 'I really could, you know.'
  Hope leant over from the back seat, put her arms round her
mother's neck. 'But you wouldn't, would you. Mommy? Mother.
You know that we love you really, don't you. I mean way deep
down inside we do. You know that, right?'
  'I know that. Yes I suppose that I do.' said Alice. `Of course
I do.
But let it show a little more. could you? Sometimes, you know.
people can't go on guessing at love. We have to have a few signs.
Don't bury all yours "way down deep inside". Let it show, just
now
and then. could you?'
  'All right,' said Clemency unexpectedly.
  `She's only saying that because Alan Spinner Junior hasn't
looked at her for the last three days. That's why,' said Hope.
  'You shut up Miss Know-all, that is absolutely not true!'
  Alice pulled out into the traffic on Beverly, turned onto
Wilshire.
  Above them the sky was feathering with plumes of saffron, pink.
and orange. A desert sky; and setting sun.

  Mouse drove her small car tight against the closed iron gates
in
the last of the light. locked the doors. threw the keys into the
ivy.
There was almost no twilight here: a moment's hush, then darkness
fell. She crossed to the house, closed and bolted the door, slid
home
the chain, made her way across the darkening hall, lit the table
lamp among the dusty china cats on the centre table, carried it
up
the stairs and sat. leaning against the heavily carved post at
the top.
  Irina's voice drifted faintly from the closed door of her room
down
the corridor. 'Mouse! Mouse! Oh! Bloody Mouse. Where are you?
Where are you, Mouse% Idiot! Mad woman! Help me! Come and help
me. oh come and help me please. please Mouse? Come to me.'
  Mouse got to her feet, stood for a moment at the top of the
stairs,
looked down into the black hall. and with one deliberate swing
hurled the oil-lamp into the darkness below: watched it explode
in
a flower of flame against the curtains which she had earlier
drenched with petrol from the can she carried in the back of her
car.
For emergencies. Saw the great leap of yellow fire; sat down
again.
Arms folded contentedly across her knees.
  By the time anyone saw the blaze. and by the time they had
dragged her car from the locked iron gates, there would be
nothing
very much left to worry about.

  She looked around her, smiling.
  'Mama? Papa!' she called. `Are you waiting for me? I am very
near. Please be patient. I know that I have been a long time. But
I am coming now. I am not far away. Not far away. and all is
well.
All is well.'
  Above the crackling of burning wood she heard Irina crying, but
she paid no heed; there was nothing that she could, or would. do
now, and very soon everything and everyone in the house would
be obliterated. Wickedness would crumble to ash. evil would be
purified by fire. the havoc brought by the Golden Man would be
all
burned away. And no one would ever know.
  She looked up into the curling smoke, the dancing sparks. heard
the growing roar. saw the heavy wings of a great crow tremble
high
above her in the fiery updraught, and, putting out her hand. she
called again into the flickering light, her eyes filled with the
joy of
release.
  'Wait for me! Mama! Papa! Wait for me! I am coming. I am
coming. All is well, all is well!'

  Jupiter leant over the sagging rail of Etty's porch, idly
kicking one
heel against the other, hands relaxed. an empty beer can swinging
between finger and thumb.
  'There's a breeze. A real keen breeze.' she said. 'I sure am
glad I
kept this old coat. Been meaning to get me a new one. but what
the
heck. Saved the money.'
  'You goin' to catch your death. you hang around there on that
old porch,' Etty shouted from the house. 'You come in here. I got
a real sweet batch of cookies I baked up.'
  'Is God's pure air. I'll catch my death just as soon as the
Good Lord
is ready for me. and He ain't given me no sign yet He is. So.'
  `A mule, Jupiter. You always were and you always is.'
  'I reckon. That's how I got through this weary life. Is hoþþ
I am.
A mule.' she said agreeably.
  Fire sirens began howling urgently in the distance, came
closer.
swung away, faded.
  'A fire someplace: ' called Etty. switching on the porch light.
  'I reckon. Or a accident.' Jupiter looked up into the night.
'Oh
Lordy. Lordy. There is one beautiful sunset way off there.'
  'In the dark: You don't get no sunset in the dark.'
  'When you get it then?'
  'Afore the darkness comes. is when.' Etty came out onto the
porch, shrugging into a man's jacket. `Shit! But this is a cold
wind.
It is one cold wind. . .' She looked over the rail. 'Ain't no
sunset, that.
No way. '
  `Is west, all right: '
  'One hell of a fire, that's what,' said Etty. `Ain't no sunset
about
it: west or not.'
  `All aglowin' on the clouds. Ain't that just the prettiest
sight you
ever did see% That's how the Sweet Lord will come. . . when the
time
is ready. All in light.'
  'You expecting the Second Coming right in the middle of a scrub
fire? You is one dumb critter.' said Etty. folding her arms about
her
body.
  `A scrub fire? Think that's what it is?'
  `Santa Monica. Somewheres. . . all those old eucalyptus burn
like
torches. . .'
  'That's sad.'
  'You come on in now, gal. Ain't nothing to do with you, that
old
fire. Is a long way away. You come and taste my sweet cookies.'
  Jupiter dropped her empty beer can into the bushes, stood
looking
towards the red glow in the west, wavering, fading. bursting up
again in a carmine thrust. curling like a question mark, dying,
loitering gently on the low cloud.
  'Glory, glory!' she said. `Ain't nothin' to do with me. Amen,
and
thank you Sweet Lord.' She began to walk cautiously across the
rotten planks of the porch. `I reckon that's a long, long ways
off.
Right? West of Sunset someplace. where the nobody-people live.
Missis Etty Baker?' she called. 'You got another little can of
beer for
me: I got a real wicked thirst this evenin'.'