by Simon Raven
‘Just over there,’ said Fielding’s voice.
They disembarked, walked across a small campo, and entered the church of San Martino by the west door.
‘Third altar on the right,’ Fielding said.
Jeremy, who had been looking forward to a collection of fresh young thighs (plague buboes and all) was annoyed to find a blank frame in the middle of which an ill written notice proclaimed that Asolano’s Ragazzi della Peste was ‘In Restauro’.
‘Which means,’ said Fielding savagely, ‘that the brutes will keep it about ten years.’
‘Ten years?’
‘Yes. They put them in a special warehouse to await restoration, then run out of money and can’t employ any restorers or even heat the warehouse, so that when they do get money again (ours or the Americans’) the pictures have deteriorated still more and cost three times what they should to repair – if, that is, the cash hasn’t been embezzled by some big-mouthed blue chin in the Belli Arti or the Government, and so good night.’
‘In short,’ said Jeremy with relish, ‘the Italians aren’t fit to have care of their own inheritance.’
‘Nor are the Greeks. Look at that stupid bitch of an actress who’s agitating for the return of the Elgin Marbles. If they go back to Athens, they’ll simply be allowed to rot to pieces in the polluted air like the Acropolis they first came from.’
Both of them felt better after this bout of misoxeny and better still when they found the boat hadn’t yet left the harbour and they need not wait there an hour for the next. As they cruised up the channel from Burano, the clouds to the north cleared and gave them sight of the ranks of white-helmed Dolomites; and a light breeze rose and flickered in the reeds along the mudbanks.
‘Dinner at the Antico Martini,’ Fielding said, and at once wished to retract the offer: too late.
The Antico Martini provided delicious food and a suggestive cabaret. The evening would cost Fielding not far off a hundred pounds, adding grievously to his Diners’ Club Account (for Diners, he had decided, should bear the evening’s cost) on which he already owed over £2,000. To pay this account and all the others on which he had drawn during this gyro with Jeremy, he must sell shares worth up to £5,000, when he got home, not indeed the last he had but not so very far from it. For months, as disappointment succeeded disappointment (film deals cancelled at the eleventh hour, options taken out and never paid for) he had been living off fat, telling himself that something must sooner or later go right, as always in the past something had. Most things went wrong; one accepted that: something, just occasionally, went right; one depended on that, depended, lately, in vain. Five thousand pounds’ worth of bank shares must go, which left seven (at best) in property and oils. The house at Broughton Staithe, never much more than a seaside shack, had been so neglected (since Harriet left) that it was almost worthless…as, in practice, was Buttock’s Hotel.
Fielding owned half of this establishment; his friend, ‘Mrs’ Maisie Malcolm, the other half. Unless Maisie agreed to sell, the thing was unsellable; and Maisie would not agree to sell as long as the place was ‘home’ to fourteen-year-old Teresa (Tessa) Malcolm, officially Maisie’s niece and ward but in truth, as Fielding knew, her daughter. Even if Maisie agreed to sell, they were forbidden, by the terms of the will of the late owner, Mrs Buttock, from selling to property developers who might pull the place down, and if they could not sell to them, then to whom?
No; it was not a time to be taking people to the Antico Martini; but then how could one stop? If one was used to the Antico Martini, then one continued, as a matter of course, to go there; one could not economise, or not in this area; it made one feel silly.
Years ago, Fielding remembered, on finding that he would have to stay in Venice for longer than he had expected, he had moved out of the Gritti to a marginally humbler establishment, remarking as he did so that his middle-class sense of propriety made him feel uncomfortable in the Gritti (as he would in the Ritz in Paris or the Connaught in London) except for very short visits: it was simply not fitting that he, being who and what he was, should live there for weeks on end, even when he could afford it. He still felt this: he could still very easily eschew the Gritti Palace because it was intended for someone else, it was intended for a certain set of people which did not include Fielding Gray. But the Antico Martini was another matter. This was intended to provide food and drink and diversion of the kind to which he had been accustomed for the last thirty years and more, ever since he was first commissioned as Cornet in Hamilton’s Regiment of Horse. He could not give up the Antico Martini when in Venice any more than he could give up, when in England, his Club or his annual badge at Goodwood or his seat in the Pavilion at Lord’s; occasional evenings at the Antico Martini and places comparable were part of the package which he had earned for himself and proposed to keep. The Antico Martini was something…well…something to which he was entitled. Of course he had been right to tell Jeremy that they were going there that evening for dinner, and go they would. There was plenty of money to settle the Diners’ Club Account and the rest…this time, at any rate, and something must surely go right before the next.
‘Success?’ said Lord Canteloupe to his private secretary, Leonard Percival.
‘Success,’ said Percival, lowering the tip of his convex nose as if he intended to insert it in the cleft of his chin. ‘They like the one which I showed them. They are waiting for your good self to bring the rest and strike the price.’
Lord Canteloupe paced with military demeanour to the window of his study and looked out, over a meadow with a copse of ladybirch at its centre, past a river which wound through a parade of bat willows, and on to the damp flats which marched from Wiltshire into Somerset.
‘I’m not a good salesman,’ he said at last, swivelling the top half of his gangling body towards Percival, then executing an elegant about turn with his feet and legs – Cavalry fashion, as though wearing spurs. ‘Can’t you go again?’
‘When these kind of goods are in question, they like to deal with the owner in person, particularly if he is titled. They like to talk on and in their own terms to an aristocrat, and to observe his well-bred embarrassment at the questionable nature of the commodity for sale.’
‘A real aristocrat,’ said Canteloupe, ‘shows embarrassment at nothing.’
‘That might amuse them even more.’
‘I am not a real aristocrat, only a very weedy imitation. I should just flop about and giggle and make a muddle of the whole thing. Please go for me, Leonard.’
‘They have absolutely asked for you. If you dislike the notion, Detterling, I suggest you simply abandon the whole thing.’
Leonard Percival always called Canteloupe ‘Detterling’, the name by which he and everyone else had known him before he inherited his Marquessate.
‘I very much want to go ahead.’
‘Why? You can’t need the money.’
‘I do. For private purposes. You forget, Leonard: although my house is one of the most successful “stately homes” in the tourist business, I cannot touch the income – or only a tiny fraction – for my personal use. I have a private scheme on hand, for which I need to sell the Canzonis.’
Leonard Percival, close as he was to his employer, sensed that further enquiry would be unwelcome.
‘Very well, Detterling. If you want to go ahead you must go to California. Here is the number which you must telephone when you reach Los Angeles. You will then be told what to do. I will reserve a first class passage for you by TWA tomorrow.’
‘The day after. I have to go to Sandwich tomorrow, and then pay a visit in London.’
‘The day after tomorrow, then. I shall meet you at the airport. My presence there to see you off will ensure that you will be untroubled by Customs men on your way out.’
‘Useful, knowing an ex-Secret Service man.’
‘A Jermyn Street man is the proper expression. No “ex” about it. Once a Jermyn Street man always a Jermyn Street man, even when r
etired with ulcers.’
‘Anyhow, useful. Thank you, Leonard.’
‘My pleasure, Detterling. As for your entry into the United States, I cannot, of course, give a one hundred per cent guarantee. But I think you will find that your hosts – though they will not make themselves personally apparent to you until you have telephoned that number – will have arranged that everything should be as comfortable as possible.’
‘Anything I should know about the pictures? Useful patter? Balbo, you speak.’
A bald, bent, shabby little gnome of a man scuffled out of a corner where he had been examining a set of twelve watercolours, unframed but handsomely mounted and protected by transparent covers, all of them fifteen inches by nine.
‘Set of thirteen,’ said the gnome in a gentle tenor, ‘twelve here and one which Percival took to California as a sample. Just to remind you: the inspiration of the series was a picture by Asolano in the church of San Martino in Burano – a crowd of boys showing their plague buboes to the Virgin. The eldest son of the first Lord Canteloupe, while on his travels incognito, saw the possibilities here and commissioned the Venetian Canzoni to paint some watercolours, the first of which should be a copy of Asolano’s original, while the rest should develop the full physical and emotional potentialities of the situation, stage by stage, with Mary Magdalen, Martha and others effectively intervening as the affair rises to a climax. The paintings were sent home in the diplomatic bag from the British Chancery in Venice only a matter of weeks before Napoleon got there and the young nobleman who commissioned them was murdered, in the general confusion, by unidentified enemies.’
‘Thank you, Balbo. All very clear.’
‘One more thing, Canteloupe. I am told, by Jacquiz Helmutt and other friends in the art world, that the original Asolano has recently been removed from its place in the church at Burano, the official reason given being “restoration.” But since some that have seen it during the last year vouch for its near perfect condition, there must be something suspicious in its removal. It is at least possible that somebody – God knows who, perhaps the parish authorities in Burano or some ecclesiastical fundraiser from Venice or even Rome – anyhow that somebody, Canteloupe, may be selling the thing undercover, possibly to America, possibly to the very Americans with whom you are to deal. This, of course, would add considerably to the value of your paintings, for a number of obvious reasons. So let them know, in a friendly way, that you know of the Asolano’s removal from Burano and of the possibility that there is more behind this than needless restorations. Then they’ll deduce that you are well up in such matters and not to be trifled with.’
‘I very much doubt whether I shall carry it off,’ said Canteloupe, ‘but thank you, old friend, for the hint. I’m away to London this evening as tomorrow is a long day out, but do stay here as long as you’d like to. Leonard will see that you are entertained.’
‘Thank you, Canteloupe, but I’ll go back to Lancaster tomorrow, I think. Leonard’s entertainments, excellent as they are, cannot disguise or mitigate the fact that there is a very pregnant young woman in your house. As you know, I dislike any notion of fertility in animal species. So revolting. Not aesthetically, of course, for many artists have presented the condition very attractively in terms of line and draperies, but biologically. As a former biochemist, you see I know all too clearly the horrors that are hidden by those draperies. If only mammals could be as seemly in reproduction as plants or the lesser invertebrates.’
‘Point taken, Balbo,’ said Canteloupe with a shift of his eye toward the window. ‘I suggest that you and Leonard dine à deux in this evening, away from the females.’
‘So Balbo Blakeney will be off tomorrow,’ said Canteloupe to his wife, Baby.
‘Good. Horrible old thing.’ Baby stretched her long, strong thighs in their green corduroy, pouted at them with wet lips, then grinned complacently at Canteloupe. ‘Horrible old thing,’ she repeated.
‘Time was,’ said Canteloupe, with something of the Private Tutor in his voice, ‘when the girls – a girl anyway – very much liked him. And he’s been very useful, in one way and another – to me and my cousin before me. So wave him a nice goodbye as he goes. That’s all I ask.’
‘I’ll do my best, my lord,’ said Baby meekly, curling the fingers of her right hand into her groin.
‘That’s my girl. Now: I shall be gone anything up to a fortnight. Will Jo-Jo have had that baby of hers by the time I get back? And what are she and Jean-Marie going to do about a house? As far as I’m concerned they can stay here for ever – one remembers the huge contribution Jo-Jo makes to household expenses – but don’t you think they might prefer a place of their own? After all, Jean-Marie has finished revising his book, and Jo-Jo has finished translating it into English, so really they’ve not got so much else on that they couldn’t start house-hunting.’
‘Except, Canty, that Jo-Jo has still to have the baby?’
‘Of course. I meant, after that.’
‘We’d better see how it goes, sweetheart. There is one rather alarming thing, you see.’
‘Surely it’s the right way up and all that?’
‘Oh yes. But there is a problem. Don’t you worry, darling. You leave it to me and Jean-Marie, and go happily off on your jaunt to America.’
‘Sandwich first. Marius.’
‘Oh yes?’ said Baby Canteloupe vaguely. ‘Give him my love, of course.’
‘Then La Soeur’s Nursing Home tomorrow evening. Max.’
‘What shall you find?’
‘I shall see, shan’t I?’
‘And then this mysterious trip to Hollywood. Oh Canty you haven’t fallen in love with a film star?’
She beckoned him to sit beside her in the double armchair which she had had built especially for her boudoir, and started to stroke the creditable remnants of his grey hair.
‘No film stars, thank you. Just a spot of business over there. Money. If you’re a good Baby, Canty may bring you back a nice presy.’
‘Oh, Canty darling, whatever will it be?’
‘I can’t tell you now,’ said Canteloupe, ‘in case it all falls through. But I rather think it will surprise you.’
‘Oh goodie, goodie. Baby does love a surprise,’ she said, as she placed her head against his waistcoat and began their customary ritual of farewell.
Late in the afternoon, after her husband had left, Baby Canteloupe went to find her friend, Jo-Jo Guiscard, who was resting in a deckchair by a small pool in the middle of a grove of ladybirch, which they kept private to themselves, in a meadow in the home park.
‘This September feels particularly autumnal,’ Jo-Jo said. ‘Sometimes the summer lingers till October…but not this year.’
‘It’s not cold,’ said Baby, ‘there’s still plenty of sun. It’s nice enough for you to sit here.’
‘Only because I’m kept warm by memories of these last months,’ said Jo-Jo, ‘all our talks and backgammon and you reading to me from Mrs Gaskell and Rosamond Lehmann. All over now. “Farewell, summer; summer, farewell.”’
Jo-Jo sat up on the edge of her chair and straddled in her shorts like an ill-conditioned boy on a circus bench.
‘You shouldn’t sing that song,’ Baby said. ‘They say it’s unlucky.’
‘Who’s singing? I am just regretting the end of a season, the season of my pregnancy. Because I have a feeling,’ Jo-Jo said, framing her butch little face with her palms, ‘that Alexandre will be on his way very soon now. So have we anything to discuss first?’
‘Yes,’ said Baby, ‘suppose Alexandre turns out to have a slit?’
Jo-Jo gave Baby a sharp, street Arab’s grin, and said nothing.
‘Suppose,’ Baby insisted, ‘that Alexandre turns out to be a girl?’
‘Why bring that up now? You’ve gone along with me all through the summer. It will be a boy, we’ve said: to be called Alexandre, after Paris of Troy.’
‘Does it matter so much? You can always have more. Jean-Marie will be
happy either way.’
‘I shan’t. I want a boy, a red-faced, bawling, imperious boy, with a cute little prick that goes stiff when I play with it. That makes them love you. That’s why Italian boys all adore their mothers – because they play with their little prickles to keep ’em happy.’
‘And just look at the results.’
‘Don’t you ever play with Sarum? In his bath?’
‘I don’t often see him in his bath. That’s what I pay his nurse for.’
‘Then what about when you feed him?’
‘I can’t say it’s occurred to me. Anyway, you’re generally there.’
‘I shouldn’t mind. I’d like it. I might even masturbate.’
‘What a very peculiar mood you’re in.’
‘Why don’t you play with Sarum? Someone’s got to wash him and dry him there anyway, so what’s the difference? That’s the excuse all mothers make: “I was only washing him.” I’m just being honest when I say I shall do it deliberately.’
‘And how long shall you go on?’ said Baby in a sympathetic tone, knowing that one must humour pre-natal fantasies or obsessions. ‘I mean, till he’s five…eight…eleven?’
‘For as long as he seems to enjoy it. I’ll tell you another thing,’ Jo-Jo said. ‘Uncle Ptoly told me. Most healthy boys, he said, when they get to be about fourteen or fifteen, they want to fuck their mothers.’
‘Jesu-Maria,’ Baby said, but just managed to hang on to her aplomb. ‘And are you going to let Alexandre fuck you?’
