Mr. Porter and the Brothers Jones

by Reinhold, Margaret;

  Now he said, “Go on, Lilac. I’ll swim later.”

  The three of them set off down the stony path towards the sea.

  The sun was burning. The land crackled and shimmered around them. Their feet slithered on the dry pebbles. No one spoke.

  Suddenly Beatrice said loudly, “Oh, blast!” and stopped in her tracks.

  “I’ve left my mask in the bedroom. Be a dear, Jerome. Go and get it. I’m sorry, but I’m too hot to go back.”

  She sank down on a rock and fanned herself. Lilac tried to find Jerome’s eyes, but he said briskly, “Right. Hold these,” and dumped his towel and flippers in Beatrice’s lap. He began to climb the steep path in the direction of the house while Lilac stood, a slim, disapproving figure, frowning at him.

  After a while, he looked back. Lilac had found a rock next to Beatrice. They sat side by side facing the sea. He wondered uneasily what they might be saying to one another. As he drew near the house he saw the black and white cat lying in the sand in the shade of a thorny bush.

  “Hullo,” he said to it. It watched him through half-closed eyes, ready to spring away if he came nearer. “We’ll be friends yet,” he called and, laughing, went on his way.

  He felt a shiver of apprehension even before he opened the door of his room. There stood Joshua by the open window, staring towards the hills.

  “Hullo,” said Jerome uncertainly. “What’re you doing here?”

  Joshua was clearly startled.

  “What are you? I thought you’d gone for a swim.”

  “Beatrice forgot this,” Jerome said as he picked up the mask. “Why are you in here?”

  “Good gracious, Jerome, we all own the house. Surely there’s no reason I shouldn’t go round to see the state it’s in after the winter?”

  Jerome felt a familiar sense of guilt and frustration.

  “Right,” he said, “right,” and snatched up the mask. “Are you staying?”

  Joshua shook his head. “I’ll go and see how Emily’s getting on,” he said and went out of the room.

  That night at dinner eaten on the terrace, Joshua said, “Jack Martin told me the most extraordinary thing about John Carlton the other day. Perhaps you’ve heard it? He’s supposed to have shot a man in the war.”

  Jerome stared at him.

  “Well, what’s so extraordinary about that? Thousands—millions—of people were shot in the war.”

  “Oh, no, not like that. He shot another man—another officer—in his tent in the desert in North Africa—another Englishman, I mean.”

  “An accident?”

  “No. Deliberately. The story is they had an argument, over a girl I believe. Carlton just picked up the gun and shot the other chap dead—just like that. It was all hushed up—put down to enemy action—but it was actually murder.”

  “Good Lord,” said Jerome. He stared at Joshua, who seemed to be smiling in the shadows.

  “He’s capable of it,” said Jerome, recounting this story to Mr Porter.

  “I swear he’s capable of it. That was a message to me, of course.”

  “Hardly contemporary.” Mr Porter shook his head. “Greek, yes, but not contemporary. Not everyone could do it. It’s not the culture.” And yet, what makes murderers? he thought. How can one tell about Joshua Jones?

  “The gap between the feeling and the action is enormous,” he said aloud, quoting from Dr Katzenheimer. “That’s a comfort for us all. What happened next?”

  The next day, the tension seemed a little diminished.

  Lilac climbed the hill with Emily, sat on a rock, looked at the sea, helped Emily pick wild flowers. The hillside glowed in the sun. Feathery shrubs were rimmed with light and far below the blue sea glittered like broken glass. A soft satisfaction filled Lilac. She sat on the hard rock smiling secretly, now about Jerome, her lover, now about Joshua, her husband. She wasn’t at all troubled by the implications of the love affair. She was simply pleased that she was desired by both men.

  “Lilac doesn’t have a very strong grip on reality,” said Jerome, rather sadly.

  Mr Porter nodded. “I understand that. I have difficulty with reality myself. I regard a grip on reality as a knack, a kind of conjuring trick. Now you see it, now you don’t. You think you’ve got it and a minute later, it’s gone. But what happened then?”

  “What happened then was that I became obsessed with Lilac. I couldn’t get her out of my mind for a single second, day or night. I waited for her, I watched her, if she came near me my bones turned to water. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep. I pretended to Beatrice that I had a fever—and in fact, it was like a fever! I shivered, I sweated, I felt weak.

  Lilac, of course, being Lilac, was as provocative as she could be. Lying in the sun, she bared her breasts. She brushed against me at every opportunity. She asked me, in front of Beatrice and Joshua, to rub her naked back with sun oil. I felt crazed with desire. The thought of her with Joshua, making love—even now—the pain—”

  He shut his eyes.

  “And it is such a beautiful place!—that too—the sea in all its colors—and the sky and hills—Joshua and Lilac seemed to get on rather better than usual, strangely enough. I became confused, disorientated with desire and frustration and the beauty of the sea and the hills. I think I lost my grip on reality too—but nothing more happened. I endured the time—and then the holiday came to an end. Lilac and Joshua flew home together and Beatrice and I drove back.”

  There was a long silence. Mr Porter gave a deep sigh. He looked at the clock. It was long past his bedtime. He rose. “Come and see me again,” he said.

  Jerome, too, stood up. He looked dazed and a little feverish—as if he were still in that other world, among olives and pines in the house above the sea. But he pulled himself together and held out his hand to Mr Porter.

  “I can’t thank you enough. May I come again? I would be very grateful.”

  Mr Porter nodded gravely. He saw Jerome to the door and made hurried preparations for bed. But although he went through his practical routine, he was haunted by the vision of a lonely shore—half a memory, half a dream—and a line of dark mountains, a great sea stretching to the horizon under the moon. Somewhere in the depths of him he heard a cry—a woman’s voice calling out in sudden fear—which slowly faded. Disturbed, he pulled the sheets up to his chin and lay for a while, sleepless.

  Seven

  In the ensuing discussions with Mr Porter, Dr Katzenheimer began gradually to pick up the threads of a new saga woven intermittently into the rich fabric of Mr Porter’s inner life. His angry encounters with Cyril continued, as did his nostalgic frustrations with Vera, but among his bitter recollections of his father, his petty quarrels with his family, there appeared new elements, more bright and glittering than the old material. Dr Katzenheimer discerned the stuff of myths and legends, heroes with biblical names, Joshua and Jerome, brother warring against brother, one stealing the other’s wife, Greek reprisals, plots, incantations and threats of sudden death.

  Facts or fantasies? Dr Katzenheimer couldn’t say. She would wait to find out. Meanwhile, little squabbles with Cyril in the office flared up. Mr Porter regretted his moment of fury when he had had his desk moved out of the main office and into the anteroom. He sat, fuming, emanating waves of reproach. He felt thoroughly out of things. He couldn’t hear the conversation in the main office. He felt he had given every opportunity for Cyril, unheard, to criticise him to Vera.

  When he complained of this to Dr Katzenheimer, she murmured some infuriating platitude about cutting off one’s nose. To punish her, he tried to draw her, once again, into an academic discussion on the nature of reality.

  “Let us not try to define reality, dear Mr Porter. It’s a waste of our time. We would not be the first ones. Let us just be practical. Tell me more about the Jones family.”

  He stared at her resentfully. “What does practical mean? For me, reality is my body, the working of my bowels. It’s the food I eat. It’s the conversation with th
e greengrocer about which grapes to buy. Then it’s what happens to the grapes when they get inside me and how to get rid of them. It’s anxiety and torment. That’s my reality. I don’t regard these Joneses as real—they are people of the shadows and side lines … Will my bowels work? That’s reality for me.”

  She sighed. “I agree about the practical reality of the workings of your body, but you’re using your body in a symbolic way. The eating and purging are symbolic of another reality. The reality of anger—and rules—do or don’t and destruction and control—and the reality of your terrible father and rather dreadful mother …”

  Mr Porter stared at her with hatred in his eyes. “Don’t you say anything against my mother,” he threatened. “She was a good woman. It wasn’t her fault …”

  “No, I know.”

  Dr Katzenheimer spoke placatingly. She was impatient to get back on the track of his therapy. Mr Porter and Dr Katzenheimer had many times discussed the behavior and attitudes of Mr Porter’s father and mother. The father had been a violent and repressive man, crushing his children with demonic vigor. They had to behave like paralysed mutes to please him. His temper was ferocious and he didn’t hesitate before attacking the various members of the family, both physically and verbally. One of his most appalling habits was to hide behind doors or in cupboards in the dark in his son’s room. If he suspected that the child might be touching or playing with his genitals—and this was at the age of four or five—he would leap out with a roar, tear the bedclothes from the terrified child and, if he felt justified, beat him. At worst, he would force the child into a kind of straitjacket made from the top of a pair of pyjamas and tie him helplessly in his bed for the duration of the night. Mr Porter had dreaded this punishment above all others. His self-suppression, his anxiety about aggression and sexuality, his ritual purification, and his profound sense of sin were connected to his father’s violent repression of him.

  His mother, seemingly gentle and anxious, had not been able—perhaps had not even tried—to deter her husband from terrorising his children. In Dr Katzenheimer’s view she had connived and colluded, but Mr Porter wouldn’t hear of it. He glared at her now and Dr Katzenheimer tried to put the matter into a different context. “Lilac—for all her gentleness—is really a destroyer,” she suggested.

  “She is a victim,” Mr Porter vehemently contradicted.

  “A very treacherous victim,” said Dr Katzenheimer. “She has already rejected her child, seduced her brother-in-law—will now reject him—will seduce and reject you, if you’re not careful …”

  “Lilac doesn’t know what she is doing,” he protested.

  “Knowing or unknowing, one can cause havoc,” said Dr Katzenheimer, “and she has. Whether she destroys others or herself in the process is immaterial—it’s all one coin, with two sides, of course.”

  Mr Porter considered this. “Are we guilty if we are driven by unconscious motives?” he asked.

  “We are guilty,” she replied, “although we may not be responsible. Perhaps no one has stopped Lilac—has asked her to recognise what she’s doing—has urged her to decide—does she really want to do these things? If she does not, can she prevent herself? Responsibility lies, perhaps, with those who didn’t stop Lilac. As you have pointed out, Joshua and Beatrice colluded on her seduction of Jerome—and you will collude over her seduction of you. I believe that Lilac is carrying out other people’s wishes rather than her own. She is a puppet, as you said. So anxious to please, she can’t say no. Lilac seduces, destroys for others; in spite of their protests to the contrary.”

  She sounded a little heated for once. But she quickly became calm. “It’s the same for us all—in spite of protesting, we collude with parts of ourselves and also with those in the world outside ourselves. Singleness of purpose is uncommon in living beings. Even in animals one instinct can play against another.”

  “I’m not helped by all this confusing talk,” cried Mr Porter angrily.

  “Well, just remember—it’s a good idea to work out what you really want—and then to achieve it. Don’t be side-tracked if possible.”

  With this message firmly delivered to him, Mr Porter went out into the foggy streets.

  Over supper—Wiener Schnitzel, green salad, and baked beans, Gertrude Katzenheimer said tentatively to Otto: “You know that Porter?” Otto gave an inward groan, but replied with patient sternness, “Yes, of course I know him, Trudi.”

  She gave him a quick glance. Yes, he would tolerate this discussion if she were brief.

  “He has become involved with four people—there are also children—but four adults, two women, two men: one gentle bad woman, one aggressive “good” one—and the same applies to the men: one sweet delinquent, the other tough and nasty, but morally “good.”

  “Yes Trudi?”

  “I am wondering if these are real people. You know you always say what fantasies he has. You remember that story of the escaped criminal?”

  “Yes, Trudi?” Otto crunched a piece of lettuce between his excellent teeth with threatening vigor.

  “Well,” she said hurriedly, “what if they aren’t real?—I suppose one could say they were aspects of himself—animus—anima, etcetera. It’s a very integrated incestuous family—all thoroughly involved with one another—making love to one another—could they each be a part of Porter?”

  Otto chewed ruminatively. “That’s a good idea,” he said. “Yes, of course it’s possible. He should write books, that Porter.”

  “Do you think I could do a paper for the seminar on him?”

  “Why not? Yes—why not? You must read it to me. It’s an interesting—very interesting … idea.” He helped himself to another spoonful of baked beans.

  One Wednesday morning Mr Porter arrived for his hour with Dr Katzenheimer in a troubled state. He had been up most of the night with a toothache. Between doses of aspirin and ibuprofen he thought of Lilac. Whether it was the pain of his tooth or the dazed state of mind brought on by too many tablets, he suffered increasing apprehension for her, convinced that she was approaching the tragic end to her life.

  In the early morning he decided he must see his dentist, but the idea immediately brought conflict. His dentist, who was also a friend and a volatile and emotional man, was at present in severe difficulties and not, in Mr Porter’s opinion, fit to work. His divorced wife had become ill, his present wife threatened to leave him, and his mistress, to Mr Porter’s certain knowledge, was prepared to let both wives know of his entanglement with her unless a certain sum of money was produced. The dentist, as Mr Porter recalled, had been brought up by aunts. He was an unhappy man. When younger, he had been known to be quite rude and unpleasant to his patients. Age had softened him, but Mr Porter still considered him unpredictable. Could he control himself, he wondered? In his fantasy Mr Porter saw the dentist damage his mouth—blood pouring briskly—and then, horror of horrors, an instrument slipping and tearing across one of his eyes. Describing this to Dr Katzenheimer, he shuddered.

  Loss of control, suggested Dr Katzenheimer, in Mr Porter’s view, resulted in destruction. “Do you see it like that?” she asked.

  “I must, mustn’t I?” agreed Mr Porter grumpily.

  “It is not necessarily the case always, loss of control needn’t lead to disaster,” she told him; but he could not believe her.

  “And, in addition, there is Lilac,” he said miserably. “She is doomed and I feel I cannot save her.”

  “Do you see yourself like Lilac?” asked Dr Katzenheimer. “Or rather, do you feel yourself like Lilac?”

  Mr Porter was about to deny this vehemently, but hesitated. “I feel that I attract violence, if that’s what you mean—I suppose I believe that’s the case with her too.”

  Dr Katzenheimer smiled reassuringly at him. “I’m sure your dentist won’t damage you,” she said.

  She was right. Later in the day Mr Porter nervously visited his dentist and his aching tooth was satisfactorily repaired.

  Lat
er still the same day, Lilac came to tea. She had taken to telephoning—sometimes from her home, sometimes when out shopping, or sometimes from the telephone box around the corner.

  “Hullo!” she would say eagerly. “Are you there? May I come around?”

  As often as not, he agreed to see her. They met usually on a Wednesday afternoon, so he could predict a visit and organise himself accordingly.

  With winter darkness coming on early, Mr Porter’s flat glowed enticingly—very warm from the excellent central heating, discreetly lit, its treasures gleaming. Lilac stretched herself languidly on a sofa and ate buttered scones and sponge cake purchased in the High Street by Mr Porter as he galloped home with the shopping. They chatted casually of this and that in friendly intimacy.

  “I’ve decided to get rid of my newspapers,” Mr Porter announced. “At least, it’s a thought. They’re the bane of every morning woman.” Lilac had grasped that “morning woman” meant “cleaner” in Mr Porter’s terminology. “Unread papers, waiting to be read. I’m afraid I might miss something if they go. Sometimes I start clearing them and I get absorbed in some article and an hour later I’m still glued to it.”

  Lilac nodded understandingly as Mr Porter rambled on. “Such reading has its great interests—but I look upon newspaper reading as wasteful, don’t you? I feel I should concentrate on the heavy stuff—and hardly ever get around to that either, except on weekends …”

  Lilac said, “I hardly read at all—except magazines.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Mr Porter, “I’m reading a magazine at present—The Lady. I’m quite impressed by the prose in it—quite a moving article on spring. Vera bought it for me on account of that tapestry chair …” He waved his hand in the direction of a chair he had bought in a mildly manic mood—a beautiful chair whose tapestry seat was in a derelict state. Vera said the tapestry must be handmade. “Read The Lady,” she said, “You’ll probably find an advertisement. But I haven’t found one …”

  He sighed.

  “I’ll do something about it for you,” Lilac eagerly offered.