Pierre

by Primula Bond

  Pierre smiles at her. An easy, assured smile, that I haven’t seen before.

  ‘Rosa, this is Mrs Weinmeyer, a great friend of mine from New York. She and her husband have bought this house from me. My brother Gustav and I used to live here. That’s why I was here that day back in June. This is where –’

  He stops, and looks down at the pavement.

  Mrs Weinmeyer takes my hand and gives it a little squeeze. ‘Where he had his terrible accident.’

  ‘Where that bitch Margot tried to run him over, you mean,’ grunts a bulky man, also blond, slamming the big black front door of the house. ‘Let’s not mince our words.’

  ‘The doctors told Pierre it would be therapeutic to revisit the scene. It’s supposed to help bury the trauma.’ Mrs Weinmeyer pats my cheek and peers at me. ‘I remember you, honey pie, from the wedding. You were looking after him, right?’

  ‘Hands off, Ingrid,’ says Pierre, thrusting his walking stick between me and Mrs Weinmeyer. ‘She’s not a sweetmeat for you to ravish. This one’s nobody’s plaything.’

  The taxi driver leans out of his window. ‘Need paying, mate.’

  Mrs Weinmeyer laughs over him. ‘Well, talking of ravishing, why don’t we leave you with this beautiful little creature? She can see you safely back home, can’t she, Pierre?’

  I wriggle back into the taxi. ‘No, I can’t. I can’t. I’m done. I can’t be around you –’

  ‘Can you wait here for a few minutes?’ Pierre asks the driver, dragging me out again. ‘Please, Rosie. I’d like you to stay.’

  ‘Whoa, did I just hear right? Pierre Levi asking nicely?’ Mr Weinmeyer stamps down the steps and puts his arm around his wife’s waist. ‘Look. As we’re all here, why don’t we do this revisiting the past business properly, Levi? I’ll start, shall I? I can’t see any blood.’

  ‘Ernst, enough already!’ cries Mrs Weinmeyer, digging her elbow into her husband. ‘Do you have to be so crude?’

  Her husband keeps his eyes on Pierre, steadying him somehow.

  ‘My time as a rookie in the NYPD taught me something about the psychology of crime scenes, Ingrid. See? They’ve scrubbed the pavement. Of course they have. Once the SOCO guys have taken their samples and measurements as evidence, these white kerbstones and the tarmac will have been hosed down. You can’t have passers-by stepping over droplets of blood and shreds of skin and wondering what that fragment of bone is.’

  All four of us turn and look at the little line of tourists outside the Sherlock Holmes Museum further down this side of the road, oblivious to what happened on this spot four months ago.

  ‘It’s the sounds that come back to me, in the middle of the night,’ says Pierre, swaying slightly on the leopard-print walking stick. He has gone white. I grip his arm to stop him falling. ‘The whine of her car. It was stuck in the wrong gear. Approaching way too fast. No one drives like that in London unless they’re on the run. There was this burning rubber smell then the crunch of the chassis as she mounted the pavement.’

  A young man dressed as a Victorian butler emerges from the museum and ushers in a clutch of Korean schoolgirls. He glances at me and Pierre and the Weinmeyers. We’re all dressed in dark colours, as if waiting for a funeral car.

  ‘Apparently the car carried me like a trophy for a few yards then tossed me into the air. Someone described it as like an umpire flipping a coin. Heads or tails. I can’t remember hitting the deck but they said it sounded like a butcher throwing a side of beef on to the slab.’

  Pierre coughs and swallows, holding his fist up to his mouth.

  ‘The coroner said she didn’t stop,’ continues Mr Weinmeyer. ‘She was ready to go over you again, but then all these people appeared, shouting and running. Even Margot Levi wasn’t up for ploughing into an entire coachload of tourists. So she did a U-turn and sped away.’

  ‘I can see some skid marks on the white line.’ I point to thick black streaks imprinted on the surface of the road. ‘Are those from her car?’

  Mr Weinmeyer nods. ‘Still here because it’s been such a warm summer, with little rain.’

  From the house we can hear hammering and drilling.

  ‘Our builders,’ says Mr Weinmeyer, taking his phone out of his pocket. ‘They’re renovating the upper rooms before we move in. We’re maintaining the ballroom to reinstall Gustav’s erotica museum. And you, young man, should be spending the proceeds of the sale on a fantastic new shag pad.’

  Pierre is still staring at the skid marks. ‘I still don’t see how revisiting the two worst days in my life is therapeutic.’

  ‘Well, you’ve faced your demons, and I need to go,’ I say, letting go of his arm. For the first time since the summer began I’m shivering. No one else seems to have noticed that it’s still raining.

  ‘They haven’t repaired all the damage, unless these were left like this deliberately,’ Mr Weinmeyer says, pointing at the house next door. Five of the black painted railings are bent unnaturally into the catching curve of a baseball glove. The shape of a bent body.

  ‘The house, Pierre. You need to step inside. Only a few minutes then you never have to come here again.’ Mrs Weinmeyer reaches out again to take Pierre’s free hand. ‘You can move on and start afresh.’

  ‘That what it says in the manual, Ingrid? The manual for how to cure a nut job?’

  ‘Don’t be so rude, Mr Levi.’ I shake his arm. ‘Your friends are only trying to help.’

  ‘That’s it, sugar. You’ll be better trained than us how to deal with nut jobs.’ Mr Weinmeyer puts two fingers to his lips and whistles to summon a silver Bentley idling a few yards away. ‘The builders can lock up. Just go with him while he walks around the old house, would you, sugar? Maybe going over it again with someone new might be more helpful.’

  ‘You know what Ernst means, Pierre. You’re only a nut job because you’re recovering from serious injuries following an attempt on your life. Anyone can see you’re not your old self.’ Mrs Weinmeyer leans forward to kiss Pierre full on the mouth. ‘To get back to normal you have to conquer these hurdles.’

  ‘The official plan is that I break everything down so that the terrors become memories and the memories become manageable.’ Pierre nods meekly, as if these people are his parents. He turns to me, his black eyebrows raised. ‘So will you help me, Rosie? Can you spare me the time?’

  ‘I need to get my own head straight.’ I wrap my arms around myself. ‘You’re not the only one determined to get on with their life.’

  ‘You’ve done something to upset her, I can tell.’ Mrs Weinmeyer puts her hand out to test the rain. ‘But you’re here now, Rosa. It’s your job to help, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not just that. I’m asking you as my – my friend.’

  ‘Hush my mouth! Again the young gun showing respect to a young lady!’ Mr Weinmeyer exclaims, winking at me. ‘Don’t know what manual you’ve been studying, missie, but this meek gentleman isn’t the young gun I used to know.’

  ‘Wait here for ten minutes,’ Pierre instructs the taxi driver, not waiting for my agreement. The taxi driver parks and switches off his engine.

  Mrs Weinmeyer kisses Pierre, and Mr Weinmeyer kisses my hand, before their huge uniformed chauffeur helps them into the Bentley and whisks them away.

  ‘Pierre, now they’ve gone, shouldn’t we be talking about what just happened? The present? The future, even? Not wallowing in the past?’

  ‘I can’t do that. Not here. Not now.’

  One of the builders comes out of the door for a smoke and holds it open. Pierre stumbles away from me, heaving himself up the steps as if something, or someone, is pushing him.

  I follow him inside. It’s a beautiful old Georgian structure, if a bit grim. The renovation plans must be bristling with restrictions, but the floors and walls and ceilings have already been stripped of carpeting, paint and wallpaper, laying bare the broad floorboards and pale plaster and high cornices.

  Pierre walks a little way into the hall and then sits down on
the stairs.

  ‘What you said just then about abandoning the past? Normally I would go down the black humour route. I’d tell you yeah, I’m thinking positive thoughts about the future. I’m like the man who had a swearing tic. The shrinks advised him to meditate on beauty, peace, flowers, chocolate, music, but when they later asked what lovely thoughts he was thinking, he replied, “Fucking pansies”.’

  A bubble of amusement pops inside me. I bite my lip to hide it.

  ‘You see? I can see the funny side, Rosie, because you’re here.’ Pierre spreads his hands. ‘But I guess I should try and take this seriously.’

  ‘You said the doctors advised you to do this. Was that Dr Venska?’

  ‘She considers me a lost cause, remember? An impotent, pathetic loser.’ Pierre’s smile fades. ‘I’ve a new doctor now.’

  The house is suddenly very quiet. The hammering and swearing upstairs have stopped.

  ‘Why am I here?’ I say again. ‘When every instinct is telling me to run away?’

  Pierre’s black eyes rake over my face.

  ‘Because you’re an angel. You’re fucking good at your job. And because I’m very persuasive.’

  ‘Don’t tease me. Please. Don’t tease me.’

  ‘I know I’m the reason you’re looking so sad and I’d do anything to make you happy.’ He lifts his hand towards me, towards my lips, still tingling from that brief kiss. ‘But I meant what I said, Rosie. I’m no good for you. For anyone. I’m just trying to see if I can at least cut it as a friend.’

  ‘I don’t want to be your friend. If everything that’s happened between us means nothing –’ I push him away ‘– then I don’t want anything from you.’

  A deafening drill starts on the landing above our heads and his face hardens. He turns towards a set of double doors leading off the hall and limps through, waiting for me to follow.

  I check that the taxi is still waiting and walk through. He shuts out the racket and makes his way down the polished parquet floor of a huge ballroom.

  ‘Here’s what the shrinks have worked out so far.’ He taps his forehead. ‘Turns out my whole life needs analysing. So you’re best off out of it. Because what do you know? The further back we travel, each episode, each anecdote, each disaster, the conclusion is always the same. It’s all my fault. Yep. I even set the fire that killed my parents.’

  I try not to think about the web of scars across his chest.

  ‘I’m out of my depth.’

  ‘So am I, but don’t you see? That’s why I’m no good. For you. For anyone.’ Pierre jabs his stick at the walls of the ballroom. ‘Welcome to the house of horrors. My brother and I lived here happily enough until I was sixteen, but when Gustav moved Margot in I was dispatched to boarding school. This became Margot’s fetish den. She wasn’t supposed to entertain punters when I was around, but she carried on anyway. Those creeps, invading our house. No one thought of soundproofing the rooms, did they? I knew damn well what was going on.’

  There’s a shriek from upstairs as the drill struggles to pierce what sounds like solid concrete.

  ‘I still don’t see –’ I shout when there’s a gap in the noise.

  ‘They used to film what was going on. All very stylised. The footage spooled over the walls in this ballroom and people paid to watch it. The Weinmeyers plan to curate the edited version and reopen parts of the house as an erotica museum. All traces of Margot will be cut.’

  ‘What did it show? This film?’

  Pierre limps along, running his hands over the flaking panelled walls.

  ‘Orgies. Like a kinky Venetian ball.’ He pauses, staring at the walls as if he can see right through them. ‘They had actors and extras in, styled the scenes like Titian paintings with draped curtains, bowls of fruit, slave girls whispering in the corner.’

  My footsteps echo as I march past him towards the giant fireplace at the end.

  ‘Like the shows you used to stage? In your theatre in Manhattan?’

  ‘There you have it. My early influences.’ Pierre gives a faint laugh. ‘I should have left home sooner, but no. I stuck around and caused mayhem.’

  ‘How was that?’

  ‘I ran off with Margot. Their marriage was a disaster. She knew I lusted after her so she engineered one final row with Gustav, came to me, clothes ripped, weeping, claiming he’d hurt her. Ha! A dominatrix, complaining about pain!’ He stops by one of the huge windows. ‘I fell for it. And we fell into bed.’

  He pulls open a wooden shutter to look out at Baker Street. It’s late afternoon now, oddly quiet.

  I run my finger along the dusty marble mantelpiece. ‘I don’t want to hear any more.’

  ‘I was nineteen. A virgin, for God’s sake! My brother walked in, chucked us both out and we didn’t speak for six years. Did that estrangement teach me a lesson, do you think? Did I mend my ways?’ He rests his head on the window. ‘Nope Within months of being reconciled I tried to destroy him and Serena.’

  He lifts his eyes to stare at a stain on the ceiling.

  ‘A long story, I’m sure.’ I come up to stand on the other side of the window. ‘But Gustav has forgiven you, hasn’t he? I saw how close you are, at his wedding.’

  ‘The man’s a saint.’

  ‘So what exactly happened last June? Why did that woman run you down?’

  He hesitates, then points over to a gouge in the plaster.

  ‘Gustav and I were meeting to discuss the house but he was early. Margot was here. She pretended to be Serena, blindfolded him, handcuffed him to a hook in that wall, she filmed herself trying to seduce him, but when I arrived she went mad, started bashing Gustav around the face, and then vanished. I searched the house, no sign of her, ran outside into the street and then – bang.’

  We both stare out of the window at the bent railings.

  ‘That’s when I got what I truly deserved.’

  He turns and walks slowly back down the room.

  ‘Do you remember what you asked me, that first day we met?’ I keep pace beside him. ‘You asked me what I saw when I looked at you. Well, I’ll tell you what I see now. A man who was saving his brother.’

  There’s a sour draught licking around my neck from somewhere high up in the house. Something heavy like a scaffolding pole crashes to the floor. There’s a sickening sound of ancient splintering wood followed by a chorus of loud swearing.

  Pierre is staring at me, a muscle flickering in his jaw.

  ‘When did you get to be so wise, Rosie?’

  I turn away from him because his eyes are dazzling me.

  ‘Was it when you peeked at Venska’s notes?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  He pushes an imaginary pair of spectacles up his nose, brandishes an imaginary pen and puts on a prim schoolmarm accent: ‘“Responsive today. Extremely responsive. See sex therapy. Hypnosis. Recommend introduction of hallucinogenics and stimulants.”’

  He laughs. That low snuffle I first heard three months ago, the first sound from that shadowy sick bed, has long since grown into an infectious rumble, and I know it’s partly because he thinks he’s got one over on me.

  ‘I stand by every prim little word! Doesn’t take a degree in psychology to prescribe what you need,’ I say with a sniff, walking quickly through the open front door before he can see me smiling. ‘A hefty dose of humble pie should do the trick.’

  ‘A kick up my sorry ass is what you actually recommended.’

  He stands aside to let me walk through and limps out on to the top step, still chuckling. Is the memory of our first meeting still so fresh?

  The sun is having a last blast of activity, sinking low in the sky, sliding down behind the houses.

  ‘So are we done here? You’ll listen to the doctors? You’ll put this all behind you?’ I wave at the old house. ‘Heads or tails, like that umpire’s coin. Heads you learn how to be decent, and kind, and honest? Tails you remain a bastard!’

  ‘Tails, then. Because look how I’ve
hurt you.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ I run down the steps towards the taxi. ‘I need to go.’

  ‘Your orders were for me to be escorted safely home.’

  ‘No. Absolutely not. I have to be somewhere, Mr Levi.’

  ‘How many times? I’m an outpatient. Call me Pierre.’ He gives the driver the address of his brother’s town house and holds open the taxi door. ‘Drop me at my place, and then you never need see me again.’

  It makes sense. I grit my teeth, squeeze into the furthest corner of the seat as the taxi pulls away and heads south. Pierre glances up again at the house.

  ‘You know, the naked eye can see the flicker of a candle thirty miles away. That’s how far removed I feel from my previous life. Going in there, talking about it, it’s like throwing a bucket of bleach across a filthy floor.’

  ‘Just tell yourself that all that’s left inside are broken floorboards, maybe some ghosts, and a bunch of sweating builders,’ I say. ‘And outside? No blood. Nobody died. Just five bent railings.’

  ‘You say all the right things, Cavalieri,’ he laughs. ‘Nearly always.’

  The journey is mercifully short. My breath is shallow, my skin prickling with the awareness of him. We’re so near, yet so far. I stare at his legs, one strong, one still weak, his big hands folded round the walking stick.

  I want those hands on me so badly it hurts. I’m so angry with him it hurts. I’m going to miss him so much it hurts. But I don’t say a word.

  His brother’s mansion in the garden square looks bleak in the soft evening light. Unloved. Empty.

  And then I see why. There’s a For Sale sign tied to the gatepost.

  ‘They’re selling up. Ernst is right. I need somewhere to call my own.’ He opens the taxi door and I come round and help him out. ‘I’m thinking a white box on a cliff top overlooking the Pacific.’

  ‘I guess you’ll be wanting to fly away as soon as possible,’ I remark, walking with him to the gate. ‘It looks so melancholy without all the guests and flowers and fairy lights.’

  He turns to me and the sun lights up the side of his face. He lifts his free hand as if he’s going to touch me. The life is sucked out of the air around us for a moment as we draw closer, but we’re surrounded by emptiness. Impossibility.