Moorcock, Michael - Jerry Cornelius 07

by The Adventures Of Una Perrson (and Catherinr Cornelius) (v1. 0)

  'Are you laughing at me, Prinz Lobkowitz?' She was not annoyed.

  'Oh, I don't think so. If you detect anything hidden then it's my admiration.'

  'You'll make me self-conscious.'

  'Indeed? You should be beyond such feelings now, surely? Perhaps you identify this shyness with your idealism. You are still afraid, I suppose, of becoming cynical.'

  'But I am a cynic. I'm trying to change the world. I'm altering history, or think I am.'

  'Is that cynicism? If so, it isn't what I meant.'

  'You think it would do me good to accept responsibility?'

  'Well . . . ' He gestured.

  'I'm too immature.'

  'Ah, yes. We are all that.'

  'I haven't enough faith in my own convictions. I can't retain a conviction, not in detail. I'm exactly the same as I was as a child. I believe in love and justice. Free will, free speech, enlightenment, kindness. It's as general and as simplistic as that. One act of inhumanity shocks me. It still shocks me, Prinz Lobkowitz. I have killed people myself. I have inadvertently caused the deaths of many innocents. Perhaps I feel too guilty to accept power.'

  He scratched his head. 'Perhaps you are too innocent to be offered it.’

  'Now you are certainly condescending.'

  'I apologize again. I can think of no one nobler than you, Una. That nobility could destroy you. It has destroyed others like you.'

  'Is this flattery?' She rounded on him, smiling, but she felt very awkward. 'I assure you I'm not always in this mood. Seeing you has plunged me into it. It's your own nobility you're discussing, not mine.'

  He laughed. 'Oh, yes, perhaps. I am a very noble person. I am aware of it sometimes. And it disgusts me. I am not flattering you, Una.'

  'That's something.' She finished her drink. The smell of the whisky was offensive to her. 'I'm very bewildered today. The man I wanted to avoid is Petroff. You remember him? From the Spanish Main? The Barbary Coast? I wasn't expecting him.'

  ‘I thought he was completely persona non grata here.'

  'Apparently not. And I think I saw Cornelius yesterday.'

  'Frank?'

  'No, the other one.'

  'Is that surprising?'

  'He's my personal omen of disaster. I think he was nicknamed the Raven once. Like Sam Houston. Well, he's my raven.'

  'And what disaster do you fear?'

  'I don't know. Do you want another drink?'

  'Thank you.'

  Again she poured the whisky into his offered glass. 'I said personal, and it is personal. Perhaps I feel my identity threatened.'

  'And that's why you're so nervous tonight?'

  She had not known that he had been aware of it. 'Yes.'

  He got up and walked across the room. 'Is this the bathroom?'

  She nodded. He went inside and locked the door. She heard him pissing, then listened as he pulled the chain and washed his hands. 'At least you have a toilet which works,' he said as he came out. 'Perhaps the news about Mr "Brown" has disturbed you?'

  'What's "Brown" doing?'

  'Oh.' Lobkowitz looked at his hands. He said softly: 'He died.'

  'Was he killed?' She had expected it.

  'Suicide.'

  'The fool.' She sat down heavily in her chair by the desk. 'The bloody fool. He was married, wasn't he?'

  'With a couple of children. But they were living apart, I gather. It was in New York. He left a note—a very confused note. The authorities had limited his movements a great deal, you know, in the past year. He had nothing to do. He was writing rubbish. He had no close friends left. So he killed himself.'

  Her sense of guilt was suddenly so intense she had to force herself to be rational: the effort produced in her a coldness, something very close to a clinical state of shock. 'What a waste,' she said.

  Seating himself on the arm of the chair Lobkowitz gripped her shoulder. 'It happened over a month ago,' he said. 'Were you still fond of him?'

  She nodded, wishing that she would cry, wondering at her own callousness when she found that she could not. 'Of course. I haven't seen any newspapers—only the one we produced towards the end of the fighting. He was my first lover, you know.'

  ‘Oh, Una, how thoughtless of me. I am sorry.' The words were so conventional that they succeeded in comforting her. She began, at last, to cry, conscious of the hand which still held her shoulder. And as she cried it seemed that all the tension of the past two days washed out of her so that she wondered if Lobkowitz had deliberately given her the news of 'Brown's' suicide at that moment, knowing that this was how she would respond. She tried to apologize. He murmured to her. He helped her from the chair and made her lie down on the couch. She kissed the hand that stroked her face.

  'Poor "Brown",' she said, 'poor bloody "Brown".' She sniffed. He gave her his large white handkerchief. She blew her nose. 'I'm sorry.'

  He sighed. 'Don't try to pull yourself together yet, Una. Not yet.'

  'I hate losing my self-control. You must be tired. It's a burden . . . '

  'On the contrary, I find your response very satisfying.'

  'What?'

  'I feel much better when I see you reacting naturally. You were very tense when I came in. I have never seen you so bad. Perhaps you should go back to England for a while? It is very orderly over there. Or Sweden? Even better. You need to rest, to be away from violence and politics.'

  'I can't rest very often. It's not in my nature. I feel so guilty, even about going to sleep, unless I am completely exhausted. What did the papers say about him?'

  'Most of them were kind. I saw the obituary in the London Times. They said he was a brilliant political theorist but a confused practical politician.'

  'Yes. He killed all the wrong people!' She tried to laugh but began to sob again and now the sobs seemed to come from the deepest parts of her body. She could scarcely breathe. 'Why couldn't they leave him alone? He was doing no harm!'

  'Words seem to mean more to an American than to most Europeans, Una. It is the large peasant population. They have a greater faith in the magic of language. Perhaps they had more reason, therefore, to be afraid of him.'

  'Oh, what bastards they are!'

  'He chose to live there.'

  'He always picked the wrong countries. Germany. England. America. Those horrible Teutons.'

  Lobkowitz chuckled. 'Like you and me, Una?'

  'Exactly,' she said. Her throat and chest were very painful now and her nose felt sore. 'I think I've got a cold. Oh, shit!' She blew her nose on his handkerchief. 'Why must it always happen when I've got a speech to make? My Itahan's bad enough as it is.' She began to cough.

  ‘I think you'd better go to bed.' he said. 'Can you get food served in your room?'

  'Usually, though it takes them ages to bring it.'

  'Shall we dine here, together?'

  ‘That would be lovely. I won't bother to go down tonight. But haven't you any appointments?'

  'Nothing important.'

  'There's a menu on that little table,' she said. 'They don't give you a very wide choice and the chances are that there's only one main course available. I'll have the soup to start. This is very good of you.'

  He reached for the menu. 'I am acting entirely from self-interest, I assure you.' He looked at the card. 'What do you want? Minestrone or stracciatella?'

  'Stracciatella, please. It won't be very hot.'

  'Do you care what you have?'

  'Something light. Veal, if possible. Or chicken.'

  He picked up the telephone, waited, then spoke softly, in English. 'We should like to order a meal in our room. Madame is sick. Just a cold. Thank you. Yes, we will have stracciatella for two. Veal cutlets . . . Roast chicken? Fine. Oh, yes, cheese and so on. And coffee. Of course. Thank you.' He replaced the receiver and turned back to her. 'There! They were very concerned. You are as popular here as you are everywhere.'

  'Not quite everywhere.' She began to weep again. 'This is stupid. It's self-pity. Nothing to do with "
Brown".'

  The phone rang. She tried to answer it, but he blocked her, answering it himself. 'Prinz Lobkowitz. I am afraid that Miss Persson is indisposed at present.'

  Una giggled through her tears.

  'She has a touch of influenza, that is all. Yes. I don't know.' He put his hand over the mouthpiece. 'Did you receive a gift, Una, just recently?'

  'No.' She glanced at the desk. 'He means the rose.' She hesitated. 'Say, no.'

  'I am sorry,' he said, 'she says . . .'

  Una thought of the bribed waiter. Petroff could be vengeful in small matters. 'Say I received a flower.'

  'She received a flower. Yes. I will tell her. Good-bye.'

  'What a splendid protector you are, Prinz Lobkowitz.' She blew her nose again. ‘You are corrupting me, you know, with your terrible avuncularity. Is it what you want to do?'

  'Oh, secretly, I suppose.'

  'What did he say?'

  'On the phone? Just that he was passing through and might see you in Madrid.'

  'Madrid?'

  'He's going there tonight, he says, if he can make a connection in Milan.'

  'Why is he going to Milan?'

  'He didn't say.'

  'He only arrived an hour or two ago.'

  'It wasn't Petroff,' said Prinz Lobkowitz as he removed his jacket, 'it was Cornelius.'

  She looked across at the rose and began to laugh, careless of her own hysteria. 'That gives an entirely different complexion to the message. Put the rose in some water, would you, my dear?' She stretched her arms wide on her cushions. 'Good old Cornelius. Gone. On the way to Madrid. Splendid! I feel a new woman already.' She got up and began to march round the room, singing in Spanish. 'Comrades, to the barricades, for honour and justice are ours!'

  Prinz Lobkowitz watched her expressionlessly for a few minutes, then he stepped quickly towards her and seized her by her arm.

  Una screamed. His mouth was hot on her streaming eyes.

  TEN

  In which Catherine Cornelius continues to explore the promises of Eastern wisdom

  'Lovely here, isn't it?' Ahmed leaned on the pole and the punt surged forward on the current. Catherine's heart sank.

  'Mm,' she said. She was dressed all in white. Her frock was an original Hartnell, very simple, with the natural waistline. She wore two strings of pearls. Her strapover shoes were white. Her Gainsborough hat was white, with a white ribbon; even her little bag was white. Her gloves and her stockings were white. As Ahmed had helped her into the punt he had said how virginal she looked. He had, as she had hoped, been much impressed. He had met her from the station in the taxi which took them directly to the river where his punt was waiting. When he had invited her to Oxford she told him that she had always wanted to go in a punt on the Isis. And here she was. Unless, she thought, it was the Cherwell.

  Is it as nice as you expected?' He smiled down at her. He was looking very nifty himself in his striped blazer, straw hat, creamy Oxford bags and soft off-white shoes. He had eager, handsome features.

  'Oh, yes, it's lovely.'

  He gave the pole a further shove. 'You're not disappointed?'

  'Not at all.' She looked dutifully at the willows, the shrubs and the lawns. Sunlight rippled on the water. Another punt went by, filled with cackling youths; they were sweating.

  'This is my favourite stretch,' said Ahmed. 'For punting, at least.'

  'Mm.'

  'You look so perfect.' His dark eyes were fond. 'Like an old-fashioned picture. You're beautiful, Catherine.'

  She smiled.

  Is anything wrong?' he said.

  'Oh, no.' She had known her period had started when she got into the taxi, but she had not had the presence of mind to ask him to stop before they reached the river.

  'You're tired,' he was saying. 'Perhaps we should have had a cup of tea first. Never mind. You relax there. I'll do all the work.'

  'You look very handsome,' she said. She had been looking forward to this for three weeks, ever since she had met him at the party in London. She was a sucker for dark foreigners, particularly Greeks or Indians. It had seemed such a stroke of good luck, meeting him two days after Mrs Goldmann had caught her and Mr Goldmann in his private office out at the studios (he had got her a job as a trainee script-girl) and had made Mr Goldmann fire her on the spot. She had enough money saved for at least six months, if she lived at home, and could think of no nicer way of spending her holiday than with Ahmed, who had a rented house in North Oxford where, he had said, she could stay whenever she liked. She had promised him that she would come down for today, to go on the river and look round his college (the vacation had begun so there was little danger in bumping into the two old boyfriends who were also at his college).

  'You're flattering me.' It was evident, though, that he agreed with her.

  She tried to be amused by her situation, knowing that her nervousness was exaggerating the sensation of seepage. She had tried to spread her dress so that she would not be sitting on it. She could not help glancing down, expecting to feel the dampness at any moment. She stretched the material of the dress away from her as best she could. There was so much of it.

  'How is London?' He guided the punt away from the bank. 'You've given up working for that film producer? You told me.'

  'Yes.'

  'My father was thinking of investing some money in talkies. Not here, though. In America. Someone's starting a new company in I Hollywood. Maybe I could use my influence to get you a job.'

  'That would be nice.' Carefully, she shifted her position on the padded seat. Her sanitary gear was in her bag. She wondered how she could get him to stop the punt.

  'I am thirsty,' she said. 'It would be nice to have a cup of tea. Is there somewhere you know, by the river?'

  'Oh, yes. But let's go a bit further first.'

  'All right.'

  She leaned back, closing her eyes, pretending to doze.

  'Look,' he said, 'you can see my college from here.'

  She opened her eyes. Beyond the trees were some Gothic buildings.

  The dreaming spires.' She became inane.

  ‘Yes.'

  They went under a bridge.

  As they passed back into sunlight he withdrew the pole, letting the punt drift, and climbed over the central seats to reach her. 'I have to kiss you now,' he said romantically. He pushed his face forward and the punt rocked. He kissed her cheek. She did her best to smile at him. I've embarrassed you,' he said.

  'Oh, no. I'm sorry.'

  He stroked a lock of her hair. 'Why "sorry"? You think I'm forward, don't you?'

  'It's not that,' she said. She couldn't tell him the truth. 'I'm just a bit self-conscious. There are so many people about.'

  'Of course.' He returned to his end of the punt and retrieved the pole. He seemed angry.

  'Don't be cross,' she said.

  'No, no.' He plunged the pole into the water and almost overbalanced. It seemed that he swore in his own language. The punt jerked and she had to grip the sides to keep her position. Desperation dominated all other considerations. 'I really would like to stop soon.'

  'You're not well?' He was brusque.

  'Um . . .'

  'Another ten minutes or so and there's a marvellous little place where we can have some tea.' He looked at his watch. 'And there's somewhere I’d like to take you for lunch. It is almost lunch-time. If you could wait. . .'

  'No, just a cup of tea. I. . .'

  'Very well.'

  She was fed up. She had anticipated an idyllic day and now she was spoiling it. She tried to explain. 'I'm feeling a bit faint, you see.'

  'Quite.' He poled in silence. He scowled. She realized that he thought he had made a fool of himself.

  She tried to laugh. 'I'm really not playing hard to get, Ahmed.'

  'No, no. It was my fault. Bad manners.'

  'Your manners are perfect!' To herself it sounded as if she protested too much. 'Perfect.'

  'You're very kind.'

  Her
tension increased. Harry Goldmann had at least been easygoing. She had forgotten how touchy young men could be. An older man might have guessed what the matter was.

  ‘I've been so looking forward to seeing you.' She tried to start afresh.

  'Yes.' He, too, made an effort. 'It seems such a long time ago, doesn't it? Only nineteen days since that awful party. You know Jamie well, don't you?'

  'I know Yvette. She's an old friend. You weren't at the wedding.' 'No. I had to go home for a couple of months. My mother was ill.' 'I'm sorry.'

  'She's better now. Incidentally, I told my father that we would meet him. He rang this morning to say that he was coming down. He's in London at the moment. Some business. I couldn't make it another day and it was too late to get in touch with you.'

  'I'd like to meet him,' she said courageously. She was actually curious about Ahmed's father. Yvette had told her that he was one of the richest men in the Near East. Apparently he also held some sort of religious title. 'I wanted to make this our day.' He was almost accusatory. Absently, she said: 'I'm sure I'll feel better later.' 'Oh, I didn't mean that.' It seemed that he had. She became depressed and began to look forward to getting the train home. She had been vague about the train she planned to take I back to London, preferring to leave her options open, but now it was i obvious that there was no point in her staying. All she could hope i to do was keep him interested until she could see him again.

  'Here,' he said. She turned. There was a small building ahead. A j few tables were scattered on the lawn beside the river. She tried to see if there was a lavatory. All the tables were unoccupied. Ahmed i pushed the punt towards the little wooden jetty, jumped out with I the line and tied up. Carefully she rose, swaying. She could feel no I dampness against her legs. He helped her disembark. They walked along the gravel path to the tea shop. A man in shirt-sleeves was j sitting outside; he was adding figures in a small black note-book. I He glanced at them as they approached, then pointedly looked down at his book. 'Good morning.' Ahmed was polite. 'Are you open?' 'Open again at three.' The man wrote something in the notebook. 'Sorry.'

  Ahmed became ingratiating. 'You couldn't get this lady a cup of tea, I suppose? She's not feeling very well.'