Dark Angel

by Sally Beauman

  “Awfully weird” was Bobsy’s verdict, but then Bobsy thought people who read books were weird; his definition of eccentric was lack of interest in tennis.

  “Awfully weird. What did I say? What did I do? I asked him about Yale, and did you notice? He looked as if he could kill me.”

  It was not long after this dinner that Max Gerhard became ill. The illness was sudden and brief; he died that winter. I saw Frank Gerhard at the funeral, and I saw him again—as you know—the following spring, that chance meeting outside a church in Venice.

  After that debacle, I could scarcely expect him to seek me out; it came as no surprise that a long time passed before I next met him. I heard of him only at second hand, from his brothers and sisters or from Rosa. Shortly after that Venice meeting, it seemed, he had accepted an offer from an Oxford college of a visiting lectureship. The decision to go to England had been made abruptly, Rosa said, and it was undecided how long he would remain there. His motives in accepting the fellowship, Rosa hinted, were not solely professional. It was an honor, obviously, but one he had intended to refuse. He had left, she hinted, in order to forget: That paragon of a woman scientist had, it seemed, disappeared from the scene. Now, Rosa never spoke of her.

  I think, then, that I did not expect to meet Frank Gerhard again. I thought that time and change would take him further and further from my orbit, and that I would hear of him only as I did then, via others: small reports, the stations of a stranger’s life. He was in this country; he was in another; he advanced in his career; he married.

  Out of my ken. I felt an odd and nagging regret at this, a sense of inconclusiveness. But I did not examine those feelings too closely; I hid them behind other changes that took place during that time, small adjustments and alterations, a general sense that my life was awry.

  Twenty-five, twenty-six, almost twenty-seven: I could see my life ticking past, the clock gaining. I worked, and was judged a success at my work, but work did not fill every available minute of every available day, no matter how hard I might try to make it do so. Sometimes I would feel a great but indeterminate impatience, a reaching-out to something only vaguely perceived. I would line up appointments and tasks; I would despise myself for wanting something that remained nebulous.

  I did not know it then, but my life was poised just this side of decisive change. I was to meet Frank Gerhard again, and that strange meeting, which came about in a circuitous way, lay not far ahead of me. It took place at the very end of 1957, in New Haven.

  What brought that meeting about? Innumerable things, but one of them was scandal.

  The scandal concerned my uncle Steenie. Steenie, then fifty-seven, was living by that time at Winterscombe. His finances were precarious, but his way of life remained exuberant.

  Steenie had, with the passing of time, become more promiscuous. The young man who once declared his undying love for Wexton in a tea shop had developed a taste for briefer, colder, easier liaisons. He had, more specifically, developed a taste for soldiers.

  Guardsmen in particular. It had been Steenie’s practice to proposition these sturdy young men in Hyde Park, then invite them back to his London apartment. On one occasion, earlier that year, he encountered a soldier who, well used to such approaches from elderly roués, suggested that it would be quicker, more practical, easier all ’round, to go behind a bush.

  This, Steenie had never done before. Explaining himself—and he felt a constant need to explain himself—he said it had been deliciously furtive. He and the soldier ducked into the shrubbery. When matters reached a compromising stage, two plainclothes policemen popped up from behind a neighboring bush.

  “I put up an argument!” Steenie cried. “An eloquent argument!”

  The eloquence, however, was insufficient, and the current state of British law against him. The soldier was discharged; my uncle Steenie went to prison for six months. When he came out of prison his friends did not want to know him. Conrad Vickers found that his house on Capri was full for the whole summer. Steenie might never have hidden his homosexuality, but he had now committed the unforgivable sin: He had been caught, publicly.

  Constance at once invited him to New York. She not only took Steenie in, she also took him out. She put him on public display, at concerts, art galleries, restaurants, parties. Those of her friends who balked at meeting a homosexual jailbird were dropped. I would like you to remember this: Constance could be loyal; she had never lacked courage.

  Steenie, ensconced in the luxury of Constance’s apartment, put a brave face on things; however, he suffered. He alternated between peaks of brave, defiant gaiety and troughs of acute peevishness. He was inclined to burst into tears; he was inclined to harangue life at unpredictable moments. His fondness for wee tots and quick nips increased. His behavior, even Constance admitted, was alarming.

  Late in December, when the news came that Wexton would be giving a memorial lecture at Yale and that both Steenie and I were invited, Steenie was overjoyed. He said it was years since he had seen Wexton; that a long talk with Wexton was just what he needed, that Wexton would set him right.

  I doubted this. Constance, not included in the invitation, was scornful. Steenie pleaded, and in the end it was agreed: We would go. I decided, before we set off on this expedition, I would banish the silver flask. Damage control: I could see we were in for trouble.

  Two days before we were due to go, my premonitions deepened. I was visiting Rosa in Westchester, as I had done every week that past year. Rosa had been much changed by the loss of her husband. I was used to finding her sad, reflective; that day, greeting me, she was radiant.

  “Such news,” she said, clasping my hand. “Frank is home—”

  “Home? You mean he’s here?”

  “He flew back yesterday. He’s out now. You’ll see him before he leaves for New Haven. He asked after you. Well, he always does, of course. When he writes, in his letters from England, he never forgets. He always says: How is Victoria? I told him about the lecture, about your godfather. Such a great man! Frank will be at the lecture, and—”

  “Frank will be there?”

  “Of course. He loves your godfather’s work. Nothing would make him miss it. He’s hoping, I think, that you might join him—after the lecture, after the dinner? Drinks in his rooms? It’s your first visit to Yale—I know he wants to welcome you—”

  “Rosa, I’m not sure if that will be possible. You see, my uncle will be with me, and—”

  “Your uncle, too—you must all go. Frank was most insistent.” Rosa talked on. I sat in silence, only half listening. The reappearance of Frank Gerhard agitated me; the issuing of this unexpected invitation made me very nervous indeed. I tried to imagine an encounter between the difficult, taciturn Dr. Gerhard and my uncle Steenie, with his dyed hair, his makeup, his lavender cravat.

  This reaction would have hurt Rosa; it had to be hidden. She had never met Steenie; it would have been inconceivable to her that I should go to New Haven with that great man, my godfather, and not introduce him to that other great man, her doctor son. Hospitality was involved, too. No, I could not let Rosa see my reaction, and so I sat quietly while she continued to talk of this particular son.

  Once past her initial excitement, the flurry of news, her manner did become quieter, her sentences slower. There was, gradually, a return to that reflectiveness and residual sadness marked in her since her widowhood. She was watching me, I saw, in a considering way.

  “I wish sometimes that Frank …” she began.

  “Wish what, Rosa?”

  “Oh, foolish things. Foolish things. I’m getting older. Since Max died … He shielded me—I can see that now. When I had worries, before, I could talk it over with Max. My Max was a wise man! But now …”

  “You can talk to me, Rosa.”

  “Of course. Of course. But not about everything. You’re too young, and … Still, forget this. Switch on the lamp. How dark it is outside! I hate these long winter evenings.” She paused while I sw
itched on the lamp, closed the curtains.

  “My children,” she said, half to herself. “Max always said I fussed too much. Mothers do, I said to him. I can’t help it. I want them to be happy. I like to see them … settled.”

  “Rosa—”

  “You, too, Victoria.” Rising, she took my hands, then kissed me. She looked at me closely, her face thoughtful. “You’ve changed, do you know that? This past year, two years—”

  “I’m older too, Rosa.”

  “I know. I know.” She hesitated. “I want to ask you something. You know how we used to talk? Bobsy van Dynem—it is all over, isn’t it? I knew it was, I suppose.”

  “It’s over, Rosa. It’s been over for ages. Bobsy and I are friends, that’s all.”

  “And there’s no one else? I did think, once or twice—”

  “I thought so too. Once or twice.” We smiled. “It never came to anything, Rosa.”

  At that, Rosa rallied. As I took my leave of her she gave me one of her lectures. She said I shouldn’t talk like that, like an old woman—and I shouldn’t think in that way. It was a waste.

  I was touched by that. I left her there, in her cluttered and comfortable sitting room, and passed out through the hall. There was no sign of Frank Gerhard; children’s voices floated down the stairs. I put on my coat; I buttoned up on melancholy.

  It was raining outside. I stood on the steps of the house, watching the rain fall and the sky darken. The light was almost gone; it would be a long, slow drive back to Manhattan.

  I had borrowed Constance’s convertible. Fumbling for the keys, I dropped them. It was only as I bent to pick them up in the circle of light in the gravel that I realized I was not alone. Footsteps; then someone else bent for those keys; a man’s hand closed over them.

  I think I must have started and drawn back, for when Frank Gerhard gave them to me, he took my hand. He said, “Don’t go. Wait. There’s something I wanted to say to you….”

  I turned to look up at him, alerted by the tone of his voice. It was the first time I had seen him since he stepped onto a vaporetto in Venice all that time before, but he spoke as if we had parted yesterday.

  His face was pale, his coat and his hair wet from the rain. He looked tired and strained, much older than I remembered. Some battle seemed to be taking place within him. I saw then, for the first time, that he had pride and that it was pride which now made it hard for him to speak.

  “I wanted to thank you,” he went on, “for coming here as you have. For seeing Rosa. It has been difficult for her—”

  “Rosa is my friend. Of course I came. Frank, you don’t have to thank me—”

  “I … misjudged you.” He gave a sudden angry gesture. “When I last saw you—in Venice. Other times. I do that: make wrong judgments. Hasty ones. Arrogant ones. It’s a fault in me—”

  The acknowledgment of this weakness seemed to cost him dearly. The admission was made in an impetuous, angry way; then he broke off. His look became wry.

  “However. I imagine you noticed this some time before I did.”

  “Yes.” I smiled. “I did. Once or twice.”

  “You see, I wanted you to understand—I wanted to explain—”

  “You don’t have to explain. It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago—”

  “I know this. You think I don’t know this? I could tell you exactly how long it was. How many months, days, hours—”

  “Frank.” His air of urgency and agitation had increased. “In Venice—You don’t have to apologize. If I’d been in your position I might have done the same thing. There were reasons—Conrad Vickers, Constance. The way they behaved to Rosa.”

  “They were not the only reasons.”

  I looked at him with confusion. He had spoken, suddenly, with great firmness. His face had become set. He looked directly into my face.

  “They weren’t?”

  “No. They weren’t.”

  There was a silence. We looked at each other. He lifted his hand and—very briefly—rested it against my face.

  I felt the warmth of his skin, the wetness of rain on his palm. I suppose I knew then; certainly, although very little more was said before I left, it was agreed that we would meet in New Haven.

  Wexton’s lecture went well. He stood at a lectern, hunched over a microphone like a great eagle. He peered into the spotlight, looking simultaneously blind and farsighted. He spoke of time and mutability. He concluded by reading extracts from poems, including some of his own. He ended with one of the sonnets from Shells, that collection of poems written in the first war, dedicated to the young man who had once been Steenie.

  Dr. Gerhard sat several rows in front of us. Steenie sat next to me. He wept silently and copiously. When the lecture was over and the applause began, he took my hand.

  “I used to be different, you know,” he whispered. “I really did.”

  “I know, Steenie.”

  “I wasn’t always an old reprobate. I might have been something, once. I had lots of energy. Lots and lots. Then it went. I frittered it away. Wexton might have stopped me, if I’d let him. But I didn’t. It’s too late now, of course.”

  “Steenie, it isn’t. You’ve changed once—you can change again.”

  “No, I can’t. I’m stuck. Never let that happen to you, Vicky. It’s terrible.” Steenie blew his nose in a silk handkerchief, noisily. He wiped his eyes.

  “It was Vickers’s fault.” Steenie seemed somewhat recovered. He rose to his feet, clapped his hands very loudly, shouted an embarrassing “Hurrah.”

  We went on to the formal reception and dinner, at which Steenie became quietly drunk.

  “Tight as a tick,” he announced when we finally escaped the dinner. “Tight as a tick.”

  He weaved about from side to side. Ahead of us Wexton ambled along, and Frank Gerhard, our host for what remained of the evening, walked at a fast and determined pace. We passed gray stone colleges, ivy-clad walls; Steenie, unimpressed by this close resemblance to Oxford or Cambridge, said it was all unnatural. “A stage set. No, I won’t be quiet, Victoria.”

  Frank Gerhard’s rooms, overlooking a college courtyard, were untidy. They were full of books. There was a microscope on a chair. Wexton (it resembled one of his rooms) looked about him with pleasure. I stared at Steenie fearfully. His face was greenish; I was terrified he might be sick.

  I did not dare to look at Frank Gerhard, who, having brought us this far, might well be regretting he had done so. When I had quelled Steenie, which I did by pushing him unceremoniously into a chair, I risked a glance. Frank Gerhard looked from face to face: a distinguished poet, an elderly roué much the worse for drink, and me. His face betrayed no reaction, though I think I saw a glint of amusement in his eyes when Steenie attempted to sing us all a brief song and I quelled him again.

  Some conversation was attempted, but at that point Steenie fell asleep and at once began to snore. Perhaps sensing an undercurrent of tension in the room, perhaps taking pity on Frank Gerhard, who seemed to be finding coherent speech difficult, Wexton—spotting a chessboard with the pieces laid out—suggested he and Frank Gerhard might play chess.

  Frank did not seem to hear this suggestion the first time it was made. The second time, he did. He asked if I would mind. When I said that no, I would not, he paced up and down the room, remembered no one had drinks, and then poured them. He did so in a distracted way. Wexton later said that his was neat gin. Mine tasted like whisky and tonic.

  The game began. I sat across the room and watched them play. Silence; I was glad of that. The evening’s events would not lie still. I waited to be calmer; I also waited, I suppose, for Wexton to win.

  Wexton played chess exceptionally well. I remembered the ease with which he used to beat my father—and my father was a very good chess player. Half an hour passed; an hour; if Wexton was winning, it was taking an unusually long time. I leaned over to examine the board. Wexton was playing his usual tight and defensive game; his pawns were well deploy
ed but his queen looked precarious.

  I am not good at chess, however, nor am I a good judge of the progress of a game. It was at this point, safely invisible to everyone in the room, that I began—as I had wanted to do from the first—to look at Frank Gerhard.

  I rested my eyes upon his face. Either I had been blind or his face was translated. Where I had judged him brooding, preoccupied, and censorious before, I now saw a man whose face conveyed both gentleness and strength. Where I had recited defects, I now recited virtues: intelligence, loyalty, humor, resolve. Was he proud? Yes—but I was glad he was proud. Was he arrogant? Possibly, but I could forgive arrogance, once I saw it as a defense. Was he obstinate? Yes. I thought once or twice, when he glanced up at me, that he looked very obstinate indeed, almost fiercely obstinate—and at that type of obstinacy, I rejoiced.

  The minutes ticked by. I heard them tick, for there was a clock above the fireplace; it was half an hour slow; I liked this. As I sat I began to experience a curious and heady sensation: that time both continued and stopped, that we were in this room, all four of us, and that at the same time we were somewhere else. In that place, wherever it was, the air was animate, busy; its molecules rushed back and forth. They whirled about. They made me giddy.

  Perhaps Frank Gerhard felt this too. If he did, it did not seem to affect his ability at chess; he continued to make his moves with speed and decisiveness. Nevertheless, he was affected, as I was. I knew this, first, through my nerve endings, then through an action—a strange action—of his.

  He did not look up from the chessboard; in the game, it was his turn to move. He was playing white. I thought he would probably move his knight, or possibly his castle. Whichever piece he chose, Wexton’s position looked perilous. Without turning his head or, apparently, breaking his concentration in any way, Frank held out his hand to me. I rose and clasped it. His grip tightened. I looked down at his hand. I considered past years, past meetings, past words, past sentences. Goodbye and hello: the sentences were immaterial.