by Simon Raven
‘Soon after she went away for good. She’d been going to London more and more often, and now she stayed there and didn’t come back, stayed there searching for a more satisfactory son than I could be to her, and in the end found one…with disastrous results, because her passion, her lust, whatever it was, unhinged her totally.
‘That afternoon in the Fens, when Jeremy Morrison said she was taking care of his brother, I knew, I thought I knew, what she must be doing to him. Crouching over him and covering him with her skirt, hissing. I remembered the sweating, flabby thighs, the movement of the arm as it went beneath the skirt. And then I thought, Piero is playing some game, he wants to make me be with Jeremy, make me be with him like my mother is with his brother Nicholas. Jeremy has the same horrible soft flesh as my mother, his flesh with mine, her flesh with his brother’s, my mother crouching over his brother, hissing, crouching over Jeremy, hissing, hissing like my mother hissed that day she lost control, the first time she lost control, and put that snake into herself, and shook and trembled and heaved and hissed. So I too crouched on the bed and hissed, to show him how horrible it was, and I couldn’t stop, I just had to go on, remembering my mother crouching and hissing, so disgusting, exciting me with the snake while pretending it was a boy’s cock, exciting me and revolting me with her foul flesh, Jeremy’s flesh.
‘Sorry,’ she said to Jeremy, ‘I dare say some people like your flesh. They liked my mother’s, didn’t they, Fielding? But it is not for me. Do you understand, Jeremy?’
‘I think so.’
‘What I do not understand,’ said Piero, ‘is why this outburst upset Jeremy so much that he had to disappear. I see that it might have unnerved him a bit; but why should he have fled?’
‘Yes, why?’ Baby said.
‘I did not know, then, what had caused her to behave like this,’ Jeremy said. ‘I could not return to Lancaster and live there with her father, seeing him daily and remembering how his daughter had looked and behaved because of something I had said. I needed explanation–’
‘–Yes,’ conceded Piero, ‘you needed explanation. It wasn’t at all nice, what you’d seen. But surely you didn’t have to sneak away like Judas – to desert your friends and your College, to snub and to shame us all and worry us half to death, to wander over half Europe – you didn’t have to do all this simply to find an explanation of what you’d seen on that bed.’
‘It wasn’t just what I saw on the bed that needed explanation,’ Jeremy said, ‘though that was very horrible. There was another twist to it all: the way I reacted to it myself. That was far worse. Understand this, all of you: I enjoyed what I was seeing; it gave me…delight. It was disgusting, it was atrocious – and I loved and relished it. This little girl who was also Lady Canteloupe, crouching and shuddering and hissing, oh, I didn’t know why, not then, but I got the general message, especially the revulsion for myself, and this made me so wild with frustration and suspicion and curiosity and fear and excitement that in three seconds my prick was as hard as a cannon and in ten I’d had the most furious, volcanic orgasm I’d ever experienced. I was revelling in her misery and hate and humiliation – that’s what it comes down to. That was what needed explanation at any cost. Not the incident in itself, ugly as it was, but my demoniac joy of it.’
‘You said just now,’ said Carmilla, ‘that you might find it here. The explanation.’
‘Possibly. But I need more than a mere account of cause and association. I need to be told how such horrible things – this demented girl heaving and hissing, and myself taking an almost insane pleasure in the foulness of it all – I need to be told how such things can be permitted…and what can be done by way of care or remedy or absolution – or purification.’
‘I need to be told too,’ Baby said. ‘Well, now – now – after this morning on Burano and after this’ – she pointed to the Madonna at the east end – ‘now both of us have been.’
‘Yes. I came here after Burano,’ Jeremy said, ‘to confirm that the Madonna, the Madonna under the apse, is weeping.’
‘And she is,’ said Baby. ‘She is weeping a single tear for the misery and agony and impurity permitted – more than permitted, caused and created – by the Malignity of God, Her Son. She is not going to do anything about it. She is far too cold and haughty for that. But she is, at least, moved to weep.’
‘And in Burano we saw what is to be done – by way of remedy,’ said Jeremy, ‘even if the Madonna here is too grand and cold to do it.’
‘In Burano we saw a sacrifice,’ said Leonard Percival, ‘a man had sacrificed himself rather than commit shameful acts.’
‘Noble but futile. An act, largely, of repentance. Curing nothing. Absolving nothing. Even when God sacrificed Himself,’ said Baby, ‘it changed nothing. Not one single jot of misery, past or to come, was abated. Gregory’s action will help nobody.’
‘So Gregory, though he tried hard, got it wrong. But nevertheless we know what action can be taken,’ said Jeremy, ‘to cure and to absolve, to purify impurity. We look to the Mother of God in that other picture on Burano, as I have just been doing…’
‘…And as I did,’ said Baby, ‘peering through the crucifixion while I stood there pissing myself with the shock.’
‘…And we tell ourselves,’ said Jeremy, ‘that we must do what that Madonna is about to do. The only thing She can do, offering the only comfort She can offer, probably the only comfort which those diseased boys could understand.’
‘She will offer the comfort which my mother is offering your brother,’ said Baby Canteloupe. ‘I understand now, and it is no longer horrible; her flesh is no longer horrible because it brings comfort, the only comfort she can give or he can receive.’
‘And I also understand,’ said Jeremy, ‘why you appeared to me to be so horrible that afternoon in the Fens, and why the horror filled me with violent lust. It was because neither of us had yet understood what we both understand now, the Malignity and Impurity of God, which His Mother deplores yet cannot prevent, but amid which She can, as Asolano suggests, administer solace.’
‘When I was first disfigured by that bomb in Cyprus,’ said Fielding Gray, ‘I thought my new ugliness was truly horrible. So horrible that I was excited by it, as Jeremy was excited by Baby’s fit. I used to stand in front of a glass and masturbate – fast and hard and painfully – in the horror and excitement of my new deformity. The cruelties and impurities which God inflicts can be alleviated only by crude physical pleasure, by more impurities. Later on I found someone else to take pity on me and pleasure me. She understood that the only cure for my hideous condition was the provocation, the satisfaction, the renewal, of lust. You weren’t so much taking pleasure in Baby’s beastly predicament,’ he said to Jeremy, ‘as consoling yourself for it, as defying God by exhibiting physical tumescence and joy in presence of and in despite of this enormity of His creating.’
‘That pornographer,’ said Leonard, ‘Canzoni. The one who did the watercolours that Detterling sold in California, the pictures of the orgy which followed after the Madonna had seen and pitied the diseased boys… Canzoni had the right idea, you think?’
‘You might say,’ said Baby, ‘that Canzoni translates into crude action what Asolano only contemplated as a distant and indefinite possibility. Nevertheless, it is all there in the Asolano Madonna’s face and gesture: here is a kindly, decent, rather silly woman, outraged by the suffering she sees, determined to do what she can to comfort those boys, who are diseased and almost certainly doomed, and realising, or just about to realise, that there is only one thing she can do.’
‘Does she like the idea?’ Fielding asked.
‘According to Canzoni,’ said Percival, ‘She can hardly wait to begin.’
‘Remember that neither I nor my sister have seen Canzoni’s pictures,’ said Carmilla Salinger.
‘Nor I,’ said Fielding, ‘nor Jeremy. All we’ve got to go on is the Asolano.’
‘According to Asolano, she is resolved but nervo
us,’ said Baby Canteloupe, ‘less afraid of contamination, which is a terrible risk, than of failure or rejection. Of her own pleasure she has not yet begun to think, but most of it will probably come from the pleasure and gratitude of those whom she wishes to console. I think that is right,’ she said, and then added, rather oddly, ‘I may be able to tell you more about this later on, should I again be with you.’
‘It is very important,’ said Theodosia Salinger to Ivan Blessington a few days later, ‘that the Press should get it absolutely clear. So can we please go over your statement once more?’
‘Right,’ said Ivan. ‘I shall tell them that two days after he left England Gregory Stern rang me up from Trieste. He had decided that in no circumstances would he now allow his anti-Jewish book to appear before the public, and would I therefore cancel any arrangements I had made for printing and binding it. Would I also reject any application I might receive from any agency that might subsequently produce a text, allege it to be Stern’s and request that it be printed.’
‘That should make the matter clear enough,’ said Carmilla.
‘Is the lie substantially true?’ said Ivan.
‘Substantially,’ said Carmilla. ‘Lord Canteloupe’s Secretary, Leonard Percival, the person who knows most about what Gregory Stern was doing during the last days before he died, says there is no doubt that Gregory was kidnapped by the anti-Israeli group with whom he had just been holding talks. Gregory, he says, had obviously been getting ready to reject the demands of the group. This is clear from some of the things he had been saying to Mr Percival, things which were obscure when he said them but can now be seen, with benefit of hindsight, to refer to this intention. It is, then, as plain as anything can be that Gregory was murdered, as a punishment and an example, by this anti-Israeli group and not by some Jewish faction. Your statement to the Press should finally silence those who are spreading the latter version.’
‘Is it really worth all this trouble?’ said Ivan. ‘His friends know the truth. Does it really matter that some of the world may have got it wrong?’
‘He was trying to make a gesture or a statement,’ said Theodosia, ‘something to do with the importance of being loyal to one’s own people even if one doesn’t think very much of them. His death was the result of a positive and voluntary act of self-assertion. We don’t want him presented as a mere passive victim of Jewish spite.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Ivan. ‘I have some chums in Fleet Street who’ll help me put the word round, and I’ll cue off straight away. You two go and have a word with Betty and the girls – they’re longing to see you again.’
‘So you see, sir,’ said Jeremy Morrison to his father over luncheon in the Infantry Club, ‘I now understand rather more than I did, and I should let you know straight away that I am willing – happy – to fall in with whatever plans you have for me in regard to the estate.’
‘What do you now understand that you did not understand before?’
‘The importance of taking things as they come and doing one’s best, for oneself and others, in the circumstances that obtain. It is a favourite theme of Fielding Gray’s and has been emphasised by recent occurrence.’
‘Are you still seeing Fielding Gray?’
‘We are going to France together in the New Year. If I am to do your will over the estate, sir, you will kindly allow me my own choice of friends.’
‘Very well,’ said Peter Morrison. ‘This generalisation you have just made, about taking things as they come, etcetera: please interpret it in particular and practical terms appropriate to your own situation.’
‘One: they are taking me back at Lancaster, despite my recent excursion, without making any trouble or conditions – or not so’s you’d notice. Two: although I must read hard to make up for lost time, I can nevertheless devote some of each vacation to receiving training and instruction in estate management and so forth. Three: very few people on the estate, I now realise, will give a damn, these days, that I am being true to my inheritance and taking on what I regard as a trust; but those few that do understand this – the Chamberlain, Nanny, Mummy’s old maid, Sukie – these few, I promise you, will have no cause to be ashamed of me if I can help it.’
‘I do not think I can find much fault with any of that,’ said Peter. ‘You should go to our man in Lincoln’s Inn early in the Christmas Vacation, by which time he will have been instructed what arrangements to make about the estate and the money and be able to explain them to you. You will do me the honour of entertaining me in your house at Christmas, Jeremy?’
‘My house, sir?’
‘By Christmas it will be so. You will invite me to stay for a few days before you go away with Fielding?’
‘Of course, father. Whatever the legal arrangements, it goes without saying that Luffham is your home whenever you wish until…until…’
‘…Until I am dead. Thank you. One more thing I should tell you now, as a decision will be required of you. The likelihood is that a General Election will be held next summer. I shan’t stand again; instead I shall be raised to the Peerage in the rank of Life Baron in the Dissolution Honours.’
‘And what decision, my dear father, do I have to make about that?’
‘Whether or not to style yourself “Honourable.” Although you can never inherit the title, you may call yourself “Honourable” just like the son of a proper hereditary peer. On the other hand you may consider, as many do, that it would be inappropriate. I make no objection to either course.’
‘But you must have a preference?’
‘None, I assure you. I consider all styles and titles to be merely childish toys.’
‘Then why will you accept this Barony?’
‘Because I have a weakness for childish toys. Like your Provost and my old friend, Sir Thomas Llewyllyn, I hanker after the balls of tinsel that dangle from the tree.’
‘You will go into residence immediately,’ said Ptolemaeos Tunne to Piero Caspar. ‘You will read for the History Tripos. Your fees will be paid by me. You will receive, in addition, a personal allowance of four thousand pounds a year. You will be at my absolute disposal during your vacations, which I shall interpret as beginning one week after the end of Full Term and as ending one week before the beginning of the next Full Term.’
‘This is generous, sir.’
‘Don’t thank me. I had virtually decided to turn you off. Sir Tom Llewyllyn persuaded me otherwise.’
‘Why?’
‘As for myself, I do not like people to act on whim or impulse, and it seemed to me that you were doing just that when you went with Major Gray. But Sir Tom persuaded me to regard it as an act of genuine loyalty…and later pointed out that you had played an important part in reclaiming Jeremy Morrison and assisting his own daughter. He also pointed out that your intimacy with Jeremy – which is to continue, Caspar, at all cost – could be very useful to me in a certain project I have in mind – a project which will require the cooperation of a respected member of the Lower House. Jeremy’s father will serve.’
‘So I shall get round Girolamo to get round his father…to do what you want?’
‘Yes. But that will be some time away. Meanwhile, I repeat, keep close to Jeremy Morrison. Thus and thus. You should present yourself at Lancaster tomorrow. Buy what you need in the shops at Cambridge – here is a letter authorising you to use my accounts. You will not have your own set of rooms until after the New Year, but for the rest of this term you will be housed in Greco Barraclough’s guest room – which will be ample for all your purposes. Do you get on all right with that Greek boy of his?’
‘He despises me as a catamite and a whore. I despise him as a prude and a peasant. Nevertheless, we contrive to enjoy each other’s company without mention of these little defects.’
‘One more thing. Tom thinks that as a Sicilian and a natural adherent of the old gods you may be able to help him with his Dryads.’
‘His Dryads, sir?’
Ptolemaeos explained about t
he nymphs of the avenue.
‘A service of exorcism should get rid of them,’ Piero said.
‘That’s the Catholic answer. Tom wants the Pagan. He doesn’t want to get rid of them but to propitiate them.’
‘Sicilian gutter-boys are not acquainted with the procedures of pre-Christian bucolics.’
‘Sicilian gutter-boys are shrewd enough to give pleasure to their patrons by making something plausible up.’
‘Of course, sir. But I need say nothing until he consults me?’
‘You will have to wait on him tomorrow when you go into residence. He’ll probably ask you then.’
In Isobel Stern’s house in Chelsea, Jean-Marie Guiscard was giving Oenone her feed. Jo-Jo Guiscard and Isobel were out at some film which Jean-Marie hadn’t wanted to see. If he had, Oenone would have been left with the cook, whom she adored almost as much as she adored Jeremy, and who adored her. Since looking after Oenone wasn’t the cook’s job, he had been offered extra money; but he said he would be quite content without that if only they would all call him ‘Beryl’. A day or two later he had appeared in woman’s clothing, looking rather like Old Mother Riley, and no one had seen any reason to object, the less so as Rosie was away from home for the time being (not that Rosie would have minded in the least) staying with Tessa Malcolm in Buttock’s because Tessa was the only person who could comfort her for her father’s death.
All ways round, things might have turned out a lot worse, Jean-Marie Guiscard thought. The house was comfortable, Beryl’s food quite excellent, Oenone contented, and Jo-Jo blissfully happy being married to Isobel. Who was he to complain and spoil everyone else’s pleasure? He had his own source of satisfaction: his book, La Demoiselle d’Arques, was to appear both in French and English early in the New Year. Canteloupe said Stern & Detterling had already had good offers for the English version from Penguin and a leading house in New York. Meanwhile, Jean-Marie had now started research on a new book – Cathar practices in the Pyrenees – and there would be plenty of money and no hindrance from Jo-Jo when he went off to Pau to do fieldwork in the Spring. To crown his blessings, he could reflect that his parents, who would not have approved of this state of affairs, were safely dead. Happy the man, he thought, whose parents are dead before he is forty and do not hang about to be a bloody boring nuisance.
