The Revolt of Aphrodite: Tunc and Nunquam

by Lawrence Durrell

  We set off briskly, swinging across the meadows in the snow; though we were upon the path of a traditional ride well known to us, the snow had baffled boundaries and we were forced to work from memorised contours, munching across this abstract whiteness into woods whose trees had become wedding-cakes. And everywhere, as if developed mysteriously from a secret print, we could study the footmarks, trace the movements, of animals which were normally invisible: cuneiform of hare and squirrel and fieldmouse scribbled into the snowcarpet. A whole geodesy of the invisible life which surrounded our own. The shallow ford was frozen, and I dismounted to lead my horse, but with her customary rashness she forced her own mount through revelling in the crunching ice under its hooves. We rode westward towards the Anvil following the long intersecting rides formed naturally by the firebrakes, now outlined and demarcated clearly by the contrasting snow and forest. Once towards the top of the Anvil we turned along the down, and here the going became riskier. A rabbit-warren could have spelt a heavy fall or a broken leg for a horse. But Benedicta defied sweet reason; she turned her flushed face to me and laughed aloud. “Nothing can happen to me any more, now that I have told you the truth, how we must separate. You see, it has freed me to love you again. I am immune from dangers today.” And she set herself into a breakneck gallop across the white surface leaning ever closer into the drawn bow of her horse’s neck. So we came at last without mishap to the little inn, the Compasses, whose clients, dazed by the bounty of this winter sun in a windless world, were standing about in the snow outside the tap room to drink their brown beer. We tethered at a convenient hitching post and joined them for a few moments to drink hot lime and rum. Benedicta’s arm was through mine, pressing softly against me, as we leaned against the fence. “They put me in a huge canvas jacket like a burnous, with long sleeves to wrap around one; it was always when I wanted to write to you. I felt so safe in there. The canvas was heavy—you couldn’t poke a needle through. I felt so safe, just like I feel today. Nothing can happen.”

  “When do we separate? Do you want to divorce me?”

  She frowned and reflected for a long moment; then she shook her head. “Not divorce” she said. “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s hard to explain. I wouldn’t like to lose you because of many reasons; the child must have a father, no? And then from the point of view of….” She stopped just in time; perhaps she caught a glimpse of the expression on my face. If she was about to say “the firm”, it would have been just enough to make me lose control of myself.

  I replaced the glasses on the gnarled counter and paid for the drinks; we remounted and moved off, more slowly now, more soberly. Benedicta’s eyes were on her own white hands holding the reins.

  “If I stay here until spring you could come at week-ends.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “It’s only the sleeping business I can’t manage; I’m still a little fragile, Felix. Ah but you understand everything—there isn’t any need to explain to you. Come, let’s gallop again.” We broke once more into this breakneck pace, swerving down the long rides, hurling up petals of snow behind us. “I shall leave tomorrow” I called across the few feet which separated us—our labouring horses were neck and neck.

  She turned her bright smiling face to me and nodded happily. “Now you understand I have confidence in myself. Tomorrow, then.”

  The city seemed exhausted and deserted by everyone, abandoned to the snow; not less the rows of empty offices in the Merlin Group’s offices. The heating had been turned off or frozen and for a few days I had to content myself with an electric stove trained upon my feet. My secretaries were on leave, as were the servants in the Mount Street house. I had my meals at the club, often staying on as late as I could in the evening, spinning out time with a game of billiards. The late-night ring of footsteps on the iron-bound roads…. But yes, Benedicta sometimes rang, full of afterthoughts and moribund solicitudes; one could feel the heavy ground-swell of the resistances licking the sunken rocks—the steep seas of Nash’s little pet, the unconscious. He at least was in town, in bed with a cold; I dined with him once or twice, taking care to admonish him when I did. “Theology is the last refuge of the scoundrel.” I had read it somewhere among a friend’s papers. I also spent some time on the Koepgen scribbles which yielded their linear B after prolonged scrutiny, thunderous aphoristic flights like: “A great work is a successfully communicated state of mind—cosa mentale” and “The poet is master of faculties not yet in his freehold possession—his gift is in trust. He is no didact but an enjoiner.” Crumbs, I said to myself, crumbs! And we talk about nature as if we were not part of it. I could see the influence here and there of a writer called Pursewarden. Nor could I interest Master Nash very much in such lucubrations. “You see, my good Nash, reality is there all the time but we are not: our appearances are intermittent. The problem is how much can we swallow before closing time?”

  O but it was a miserable period … I lay choking among my frustrations. “I know it is miserable” said the great man. “But sudden swerves aside are part of the pattern. The recovery will go on steadily, you will see. Do nothing to alarm her.”

  All ye graceful midgets come

  Softly foot it bum to bum

  I suppose that in an abstracted sort of way I had begun to hate Benedicta! Even now the idea surprises me; indeed it may not be true. A form perhaps of inverted love, a famished ingrown vegetable love fostered by exhaustion and the sense of perpetual crisis. I had several beautiful photographs of her hugely enlarged and framed—for my bedroom at Mount Street as well as for the office. Thus I was able from time to time to rest a reflective eye upon that long grave face with its confederate eyes. Emotions that refused to maintain any stability of pattern.

  I went down for several successive week-ends, heart in mouth, briefcase in hand, soft hat on head—to be greeted by the new composed Benedicta; a quiet, kindly, slightly abstracted woman whom I vaguely recognised. All her thoughts were for the infant prawn-like Mark, a mere series of bone-twigs as yet: but upon whose small thoughtful face I seemed already to see etched the first pull, so to speak, of the sparrow-chested intellectual he would doubtless become. They would send him to Winchester, he would be filled with notions, learn to control his emotions as well as his motions, become a scholar…. It was desirable, desirable. Later he could help me on lasers. Dear Mark, Matthew, Luke, John, bless the bed that I lie on. We sat on either side of the fire with the cot between us, discussing neutral topics like elderly folk sunning away a retirement. Benedicta. In the emptiness of my skull I howled the name until the echoes deafened me; but nothing came out of my mouth. It was almost with relief that I returned to my papers of a Monday—to the flat in Mount Street where Vibart and Pulley at least were visitors, where Marchant came to expatiate about the power of light to carry sound-waves—the principle which I was afterwards to adopt for Abel. A single laser beam etc. He covered the grand piano in blue chalk formulae and I had to have it French-polished again. But wait, there was one surprise.

  Pulley came into my office on tip-toe, pale to the hairline with wild surmise. “Felix” he whispered, waving The Times “unless you did it he’s still alive.”

  For a moment I did not follow his drift; then I followed the shaking finger down the column of Personals until, by godemiche, I struck … a mnemon. I read out in astonishment: Lazy dwarf with sponge cogs seeks place in animal factor’s poem. I gave a cry. “No, I didn’t do it, Pulley. He must be alive.” The word rushed about the room like a startled pigeon. Caradoc! But Pulley was speaking so fast now that he was spitting all over the place. “Not so loud” he cried in anguish. “If it’s true it means—O the silly fool—that he’s escaped; yet how typical not to be able to resist … O Felix.” His eyes filled with tears, he wrung his long soapy fingers together. “Why?” I cried, and he answered “If Julian sees this—do you think Julian would ever let him go? No, he’d set to work to find him, to inveigle him back, the silly o
ld bugger.” I thought furiously. “Nonsense” I said, seeing the whole thing in a flash. “We could easily tell Julian….” And the phone started to ring. We looked at each other like schoolboys caught masturbating. Pulley went through an extraordinary contortion, pointing to the phone, then to his own lips as they spelt out a message in dumb show. I nodded. The same idea had come to me. I picked up the instrument.

  Julian’s quiet warm voice filled the ear-piece; he spoke in a calm, thoughtful, amused tone. “I wondered if you had seen The Times as yet? It has one of those oddities of Caradoc’s in it today.”

  “Yes,” I said “Pulley and I thought it up as a sort of obituary to an eccentric man.” There was a long pause and then Julian yawned. “O well, then. That solves the problem. Naturally I was a bit puzzled.” Pulley writhed. I said effusively. “O naturally.”

  “You see,” said Julian dryly “one can be sure of nothing these days. There were several survivors from the crash; we’ve heard no more about them. Our man on the spot was away. And then of course some of his papers have been washed up.” I agreed to all this. “Well,” he went on, his voice taking a sly tinge “I only wanted to ask.” He rang off. We sat on, Pulley and I, discussing this new development in hushed tones. It was not long before the phone rang again and Nathan asked if Pulley was with me, as Mr. P. wanted to talk to him. I ran my fingers across my throat and handed him the instrument. Pulley, all subservience, sibilated his information into it, the sweat starting on his forehead as he spoke. Then he put it down and stared thoughtfully at the blotter before him. “He’s not convinced,” he said hoarsely “not at all. Wants me to fly out and get at the truth.” Then he flew into a characteristic rage and banging the newspaper with his palm said: “And this bloody fool is probably sitting in a brothel in Sydney, thinking he’s escaped from the firm. I ask you.” He rippled with moral rage.

  “You’ll have to go.”

  “I shall have to I suppose.”

  Go he did. I drove him up to the airport myself next morning grateful for a chance to escape from the office. Pulley was dressed as if for the Pole, his pink stoat’s nose aquiver at the chance of having a holiday from an English winter. Dismay and uncertainty had replaced our original excitement, for enquiries had revealed that the mnemon had been posted in New York—perhaps before Caradoc had started on his journey. I watched with affection the gangling figure of Pulley trapesing across the tarmac, turning to give one awkward wave before climbing into the bowels of the aircraft. Outside the bar I saw Nash hanging about, waiting for an incoming flight, and we decided to have a coffee together. He looked at my face quizzically and said: “Things are not going too well as yet are they?” I made a face and briefly sketched an ape swinging from a chandelier. “Frankly, Nash, I have almost made up my mind to get a divorce. Nothing else will meet the case.” Nash drew in his breath with a groan of dismay. “O Lord” he said “I shouldn’t do that. O No.” Then he cheered up and added: “As a matter of fact I don’t think you could even if you wanted. Felix be patient awhile.”

  Patient! But it was really my concern for Benedicta which kept me bound hand and foot. I drove back recklessly, half soliciting a crash—always the weak man’s way out. But safely back once more I allowed the tranquil little lift to carry me upwards to my office. My fervent secretary looked up and said: “Promotion has been ringing you every few minutes since I came in.” Promotion department consisted of three exophthalmic old Etonians, who lived in a perpetual susurrus of private jokes, and an intrepid Bremen Jew called Baum who smoked cigars and looked freshly circumcised each morning. Between them they schemed up ways of marketing Merlin products. Baum’s voice was deep and full of forceful enthusiasm: “You remember the idea of having the biggest Impressionist exhibition of all time at London Airport—sponsored by us?” Vaguely I did. I vaguely remembered the memorandum which began “In our age nothing has proven itself so useful to merchandising as the genuine cultural product. Merlin’s has found that nothing pays off so well in terms of publicity as the sponsoring of art exhibitions, cultural gatherings, avant-garde films.” The latest of these ideas was to sponsor an Impressionist exhibitions of mammoth dimensions at the air terminal—offsetting these cultural trivia with a huge display of Merlin products. “Well, yes, Baum, what about it?” Baum cleared his throat and said: “Well, guess who we’ve got to open it? I have the telegram of acceptance before me.”

  Iolanthe! It seemed extremely improbable. But, “her new film opens in London at the same time and she has agreed to come. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  It was indeed—a wonderful conjunction of commercial and aesthetic interests. Buy a lawn-mower while you sip your culture. “Good” I said. “Very good. Masterly.” Baum crooned. “The entry will be free” he said. I waved my paws and barked like a chow. “What did you say Charlock?” Woof, Woof. Iolanthe’s new film was called Simoun, the Diva. Somewhere, down deep inside, a new and urgent irritation against Julian had begun to materialise. It had its point of departure in a chance aside of Benedicta’s, when she said: “And Julian is in full agreement that he should go to Winchester.” He was was he? I studied with savage attention that fluent hand which had engraved a few words upon a recent paper of mine. I tried the old graphologist’s trick of tracing the writing with a dry nib, trying to feel my way into the personality of the writer; absent yet omnipresent, what sort of a man could this quiet voice represent? And did he simply regard me, like everyone else, as a sort of catspaw to be telephoned whenever he wished to issue an order? Why would he not meet me? It was insulting—or rather it would have been if everyone else had not been in the same boat. And yet … that voice could never tell a lie, one felt; it inspired the confidence of an oracle. Julian was good. I tried to brush aside my annoyance as a trivial and unworthy thing. Who knew what pains and sorrows Julian himself had had to endure? And where would I have been had it not been for his far-sightedness? It was thanks to him that my professional career…. Nevertheless it came over me by degrees—the idea that I might force the issue, actually waylay him. Face to face I could discuss Benedicta, and the issues which had grown up around us and were threatening my concentration on the tasks vital to the firm. Damn the firm!

  When the office closed that evening I took a taxi to the little square in which he lived—there was nothing secret about his address, it was in Who’s Who. Sepulchral trees, a little snow. The Rolls and the liveried chauffeur at the door raised my hopes of finding him in; but I did not wait to ask the man, who sat stonily at the wheel with the heating purring. I took the lift to the second floor and rang twice. I was let in, already prepared to see Ali, the Turkish butler—a heavy torpid man with the head of a stag-beetle; prepared too to hear the soft plosive jargon he talked, squeezing the words up into a cleft palate.

  He was not sure about Julian’s movements, and had received no instructions for the evening. I asked if I might wait awhile. I had already phoned Julian’s club to ascertain whether he were dining there or not. There was a fair measure of probability that he might come back here, if only to change for dinner—suppose him to be invited out. It was not late.

  I examined the fox’s earth with the utmost attention, surprised to find how at home I felt in it. It was a sympathetic and unworldly place—a relatively modest bachelor flat with a fine library of classical and medieval books, opulently bound and tooled. A bright fire of coal burned in the grate. The three armchairs were dressed in brilliant scarlet velvet; on an inlaid card-table with its oasis-green baize centre stood a decanter, a pack of cards, a pipe, and a copy of the Financial Times. The tips of his slippers peeped out from under one of the chairs. A sage-looking black cat sat upon a low wicker stool gazing into the blaze. It hardly vouchsafed me a glance as I sat down. So this was where Julian lived! He would sit opposite me over there, in a scarlet chair, wearing slippers and cooling his mind with the arid abstractions of the world markets. Perhaps he even wore a skull cap? No, that would have spoiled everything. The cat yawned. “For all I know you mi
ght be Julian” I told it. It gave me a contemptuous glance and turned back to the fire.

  A small upright piano gleamed in the far corner of the room. A bowl of fresh flowers stood upon it, together with some bundles of sheet music. The tall goose-necked alabaster lamps with red parchment shades made a pair, echoing and chiming with the red velvet chairs. Yes, it was atmospherically a delightful room; the good taste was unselfconscious and unemphatic. The pictures were few but choice. Everything hinted at a thoughtful and eclectic spirit. One felt that its owner was something of a scholar as well as a man of affairs.

  So I sat, waiting for him, but he did not come. Time ran on. The servant brought me a cocktail. The fire burned on. The cat dozed. Then I noticed, standing on the little escritoire in the corner, a small framed photograph. It had been clipped from the Illustrated London News‚ and it depicted a group of people leaving St. Paul’s after some national memorial service or other. The size of the screen was not very fine and the result was a somewhat vague photo; but I noticed Julian’s name among those printed in the caption. At last a picture of him! I went carefully along the second row, name by name, until I came to the fifth figure. It gave me something of a start, for the picture was surely that of Jocas. Or so it seemed. I cleaned my spectacles, and taking up a magnifying glass which lay to hand I subjected it to a close and breathless scrutiny. “But it is Jocas” I exclaimed aloud. It was damnably puzzling—there were the huge hands, even though the face was shaded by the brim of a hat. I found the servant standing behind me, gazing over my shoulder at the picture with an expressionless attention. “Is that really Mr. Julian?” I asked, and he turned a glossy and vacant eye upon me, as if he hardly understood. I repeated the question and he nodded slowly. “But surely it’s his brother Mr. Jocas Pehlevi; there’s some error.”