by Bruce Duffy
So saying, Russell beamed her his characteristic wry smile, that irreverent, confident and, it seemed, forever youthful smile that had for so long carried him forth, like a carved figurehead plunging into the exhilarating foam of life. He really thought he had carried it off. Very well, then, he said ebulliently, I’ve had my say …
He sat back to hear her answer. And she was so shy. Dear, dear child, he thought, the better to let his fundamental goodness shine through, that she might speak up. And why did they even need words? She could respond with a simple embrace, a kiss!
Lily, meanwhile, was staring at her feet and winding a strand of hair around her finger. Playfully, he peeked down at her, hoping to catch her eye, her trust. But then she looked up, and he felt the blood slowly drain from his face as she stuttered and struggled to explain that, while she liked and very much admired him, she did not … could not …
He had told himself she was naive — perhaps a virgin still, intimidated by his candor. Then he’d remembered she was a Catholic, and Catholic educated. Of course! It was the revenge of the celibates, of the frustrated sisters and life-hating Gallic clerics, blocked men suffering from carbuncles and piles!
But predictably enough, his feeble rationalizations bit back at him. He turned dour. He was old and unsightly — a bloody fool to think a girl that beautiful would have him. His self-pity turned to rage, then to jealousy. In his desperation to find a rival, he even found himself casting a baleful eye on poor Mr. Brewer, the music tutor, a pale, spindly youth with dandruff and acne.
For a week these recriminations burned. And then, in spite of all reason, Russell found himself hoping she would have a change of heart. Mooning like a seventeen-year-old, he fantasized confessions, happy coincidences and misunderstandings, a sudden epiphany as they flew into each other’s arms. Stuck on his Parents' article, he shot an afternoon writing a sweaty story entitled Her, which he promptly burned, cursing himself for being such a blasted fool.
This was roughly the point where he found himself that day after Rabe had flooded the house, when he went to ask her if she would go to the station with the old caretaker, Mr. Tillham, to meet his guests. She was upstairs mopping when he found her. It is no trouble, she said, and then she followed him downstairs as he described Wittgenstein to her. In an old album, he even managed to find a twenty-year-old picture of Moore. Lily was more at ease than she’d been in a week.
Oh, I am sure I will know them, she said attentively as they walked outside.
I would much appreciate it, he said, struggling to seem natural. I really must stay here. I hope you understand.
They were standing out on the porch, close enough that he could inhale that musky scent. She was looking out across the hills. Sneakily, guiltily, he stole glimpses of her long and lickable neck, squeezing the image behind his eyelids, a little death for wishing. Then they heard a roar as addle-headed Tillham brought the long black car around, skidding to a stop with the engine racing. Fumes tumbled across the yard. Clenching the wheel and peering out through the windshield with his mouth agape, Tillham looked like some ancient Druid who had just been granted a motoring permit.
In exasperation, Russell called down, Pull-off-the-choke. He suggestively jerked his hand back and forth. The choke, do you hear?
Lily smiled at him — smiled warmly, he thought, before she ran down to the roaring car. Russell forgot the old man. He forgot Rabe. All he saw were Lily’s sturdy thighs as she swung the door shut. The tongue hadn’t saliva enough for what Russell had in mind. He didn’t just want to have or hold or even enter her. He wanted to wear her like a glorious coat, one sleek with luxurient youth and promise, with many, many colors.
Tryst Complicit
PROFESSOR MOORE? … Professor? …
Moore jumped when he heard her calling his name. His first thought, for some reason, was that it was bad news: something had happened to one of his boys.
But he soon brightened when Lily walked up and explained herself. And he positively beamed when he learned that this striking young woman had recognized him aided by only an old photograph.
A photograph? asked Moore, fishing. Bertie with a photograph of me? Why, how old a photograph, I wonder?
Dorothy scoffed, There’ll be no living with him now, my dear. Of course he hasn’t aged in thirty years. Not at all.
Friendly and good-natured, the Moores were making a concerted effort to put the girl at ease. This was their way, of course, but they were working at it all the harder to compensate for the strangeness of Wittgenstein, who hung back with a vague air of distaste. Was it Miss Loubry he was bothered by, or was it Max, now so playful and talkative, if not tipsy? Wittgenstein was curt and aloof when they introduced him to Russell’s emissary. Not Max. Before they could even introduce him, he barged forward, saying, And I am Max.
Until then Lily had been bright and outgoing, but when he confronted her, her voice faltered. She nervously repeated herself in a breathless singsong, saying, Yes, I am Lily. I teach at the school. How very nice to meet you …
Now her youth told. Unsure of what else to do, she turned and pointed to the car, black and dusty in the white sun, with Tillham standing beside it, scowling. Sizing up the four of them and their baggage, Lily said with some concern, I hope we will all fit.
Oh, this is done, said Max, snatching up bags. Now he was securely in his element. Come, he told her with an engaging smile. I will make this do.
It was a squeeze, but they managed it, Max heaving luggage up on the roof rack while Wittgenstein meticulously tied it down. Max then selflessly suggested that Wittgenstein and the Moores should take the more ample backseat. This was generous of him — why, he was even rather insistent about it, holding the door as Dorothy climbed in, followed by Moore and Wittgenstein. Max then wrenched open the front door and motioned the girl in, briskly saying, Here. First you …
Lily hesitated, flustered, then scooted across the hot leather seat, whisking her thin blue cotton skirt over her knees as Max, fresh from the Green Mask, squeezed his sweaty bulk in beside her and clamped the door shut. From the cavernous backseat, Moore asked uneasily over the roaring engine, Are you quite sure you have sufficient room there, Max?
Max looked back with a grin. Sure. It is good, Moore.
It was hot and close, and Moore, who sometimes suffered spells of car sickness, loosened his tie and slowly cranked down the window. Muttering and fidgeting and reeking of insecticide, Tillham jerked out the clutch — rocking their heads back as the engine popped and stalled in a cloud of blue smoke.
Yer must ter leave me more room ter drive, Muss! growled Tillham to the girl.
Lily had no choice but to squeeze closer to Max, and with a shudder they were off finally. Outside Petersfield, beyond the valley, the road grew hilly, slaloming through gentle swells of downland. On their left, they again saw the hump of Black Down, and Moore repeated half audibly, “Green Sussex fading into blue, with one gray glimpse of sea.”
What was that? asked Wittgenstein with an air of disapproval.
It’s from a poem, said Moore. Tennyson, I think. Yes, Tennyson.
I hate Tennyson.
Yes, well, mused Moore, raising his eyes. He was a favorite of my youth. Taste of a bygone era, I’m afraid.
As Moore said this, he was looking at Max and the girl. Nor was he the only one. With his eye on Max, Wittgenstein added, Browning I’ve never liked, either. Or Hardy.
Indeed? asked Moore. And tilting his nose to the window, he gulped air, wondering if it was him or if the car was indeed faintly weaving, this as he suppressed a desire to tell Wittgenstein, Well, you know I hate Schiller, and often Goethe bores me as well.
Dorothy, feeling the pall, chimed in, Oh, look! There’s a hoopoe. Then, seeing that no one had the least idea what a hoopoe was, she added, A golden-crested bird. It makes this hoop-hoop call.
Whoop-whoop. It was Max’s voice. Call of the wild.
Sensing that he was mocking her, Dorothy said pricklishly,
Yes, it’s a relative of the kingfisher. Then, somewhat provocatively, she asked, Have you ever seen a kingfisher, Max?
Sure, guffawed Max, yawing around as if to say, A stupid answer to a stupid question.
And tell me, dear, asked the indefatigable Dorothy, trying to draw poor, trapped Miss Loubry into this struggling conversation. (Yes, hissed Dorothy in response to Moore’s simultaneous entreaty, he is weaving.) Em, tell me, Dorothy continued, is Mrs. Russell one for walking? I’m something of a birdwatcher, you see. I thought I might ask her to trot about with me tomorrow.
Lily turned around with surprise. Mrs. Russell hasn’t been feeling too well, ma’am. She is, um, very large.
Large? asked Dorothy, wondering for a moment if the girl, with her uncertain English, meant that Mrs. Russell was fat. Seeing her perplexity, Lily hesitated, then said, I mean, the baby.
Oh! Dorothy glanced at Moore, who seemed a bit pale. We haven’t heard anything about a baby, have we? No, she said to Lily, I guess we haven’t. Well, that’s marvelous. How soon is Mrs. Russell due?
The girl seemed uncomfortable with this question. Two weeks, three.
My — Dorothy raised her eyes — that is soon, isn’t it? I hope we’re not coming at a bad time.
Oh, no, Mrs. Moore. Lily seemed alarmed, afraid she might have said the wrong thing. Mr. Russell is most extremely anxious about your visit.
Mordantly rolling the whites of his eyes for Dorothy’s benefit, Moore muttered, We’re sure he is.
But with that, Lily grew silent again; the whole car did. Dorothy felt a sisterly concern for the poor girl, who surely had to be uncomfortable, thrust up against, and surely sticking to, the overheated Max. Even Moore appeared a trifle concerned. Trying to ease the girl’s awkwardness, Dorothy attempted to divert her with further questions, neutral questions. The sea — was it still cold this late in the season? And the Iron Age hill fort mentioned in her guidebook — was it worth seeing?
The young teacher seemed grateful to talk, if increasingly nervous and distracted. Max was curiously quiet, though, his head cocked slightly, as if he heard distant music. Maybe it was the way the girl squirmed once that made them wonder. Or maybe it was the way she suddenly got silent, her neck flashing with red gooseflesh. From the curmudgeonly Tillham, there was no sign whatsoever. It was all he could do just to keep the long black hood aimed down the road.
Max, meanwhile, was in a little reverie. He was fixedly admiring Lily’s breasts, noting how they jostled, so high and fat and firm. (These trick brassieres couldn’t fool him, he could see they were nice.) She knew he was watching, and she rubbed her hands together to stop from trembling as she chattered on about the weather, which had been unusually hot, and the children, who had been unusually naughty on account of it — oh, especially one boy, she said, one very bad boy …
But then she lost her train of thought, and was suddenly and discordantly silent as Max spread his legs and, with his right hand, slowly loosened the tumescent seam of his crotch with a coaxing, cuddling gesture. Without the least hesitation, he then slyly slipped his right hand under his folded left arm and inquisitively squeezed her breast, cupping and assessing its weight. A good, firm tit, all right. And no complaints. So, he ran his rough fingers down the perspiring underside of her bare thigh and fondled the hollow beneath her knee, then gradually kneaded her sturdy calf, which throbbed in his hand as she stared at the ribbon of road glowing like a long, crumbly chalk stripe over the swelling hills.
From dips rose abrupt hills, then rocky outcrops and sky, where stray sea birds trailed their wings in the gloaming light, which clung to the earth as vapor does to trees. The seat was high; Max and Lily were quiet as cats. From the back, Dorothy and Moore could see only their two immovable heads. Yet there was electricity — complicity — in the air, as Max slid his fingers under the girl’s buttocks, Jack Horner style, then coaxed a slow, imperceptible urging from her as she stared ahead.
But Lily broke this reverie when the square tower of Beacon Hill came into view. And she sat bolt upright when she saw the headmaster standing atop the long drive.
As in Circles
RUSSELL’S ANTENNAE were up the moment he saw Lily squashed in beside Max. And when he saw that shamed look on her face, his suspicions were even more inflamed, as if the girl had somehow lied or tricked him, faithless as Dora.
Max was first out of the car, but he wasn’t nearly as eager to help Lily out as he had been to get her in. Russell was now the focus of his attention, the girl forgotten as he strode up and introduced himself, with that exuberant punch of a face.
The public man in Russell, the veteran of countless receiving lines, was expert at bestowing an icy greeting on the aggressive lunatic and fond gaper. It didn’t deter Max. It was Max’s nature to form quick, sensitive impressions of people, and he must have detected something in the look Russell gave the girl. Or else Max simply decided that, since it was inevitable that he and his freethinking host would be at odds, he might as well make the worst of it. Whatever it was, Max was subtly antagonistic to Russell from the first. Poor Lily, meanwhile, didn’t seem to know what had happened. Head down, stepping nimbly across the yard, she looked as if she’d been thrown from a horse.
So much was happening at once. Luckily for Russell, his children, John and Kate, were there. Vying for his attention with several other children who had run out, they were creating just the kind of happy domestic scene — or smokescreen — that he needed, with his nerves in an uproar and Dora so conspicuously absent. Oh, for God’s sake! he thought, seeing Miss Marmer. She had heard the car and was now out on the porch, nosing around — just in time to see the headmaster’s jealous stare as the shamed, stiff-shouldered Lily veered across the lawn and went inside. Russell then saw Miss Marmer herself glaring — at him. The truth be known, it was more than just Russell’s stare, or Max, that Lily was trying to escape.
Fortunately, Russell had regained his composure by the time Moore and Wittgenstein approached. Moore spoke first:
Bertie, he said in his best I’ll-try-if-you-will voice, how are you?
Quite well, answered Russell ebulliently. And how are you?
Quite well, too, said Moore, spreading his hands across his stomach. A bit worn from the trip, but otherwise fine, thank you. Isn’t it lovely here.
Well, that was pleasant — quite enough for starts. Wittgenstein came next, not fond, but bracingly literal as he shook his old mentor’s hand and said, I have thought of you often.
And I have thought of you, said Russell truthfully. Then still genial but with a slight catch in his voice, Russell said, So, coming back into the fold, are you?
Am I? asked Wittgenstein, somewhat at a loss. Then pointedly: I didn’t know I was ever in the fold.
No, admitted Russell with a coolish smile. No, I guess you never were in the fold, were you.
That was all Russell needed to convince himself that nothing had changed between them. Even with the first words out of Wittgenstein’s mouth, Russell saw that same thorny obstinance, that innate unwillingness in Wittgenstein ever to concede a point or let a simple thing be. And so it went during those next few minutes: stops and starts and polite probings, each of them summarily deciding that it was hopeless, feeling that everything and nothing had changed and wondering why they were even pursuing it.
Wittgenstein, meanwhile, still had Max to account for. But even as Wittgenstein was preparing to explain his companion, Max, now feeling combatively comical, pointed to the children and said to Russell with a vacant look:
But, Russell — I see the children wear today the clothes. It is for Ludwig that you dress them?
The remark caught everyone off guard. Wittgenstein flashed Max a killing glare. Then the flushed Moore, manfully taking his medicine, spoke up:
He’s referring to something I told him I had heard — how in warm weather you sometimes let the children go about unclothed.
In other circumstances this might have been a disaster, but fortunatel
y Dorothy, who had hung back while the three got reacquainted, came up at that moment to offer her greetings, saying with a broad smile, Bertie Russell.
Dorothy Moore, returned the master glad-hander. So good to see you. Then artfully, he said, Max here — I take it I may call you Max? he asked patronizingly. Well, Max was curious why the children are wearing clothes. And in answer to your question, Max, it is true we used to let them run naked on warm days, or when they were exercising. Shame, you see, is taught like anything else. Unfortunately, as the school grew, we took on older children who had been taught the old way — that the human body was a matter for shame and sniggering. And then there were the newspapers, which of course exaggerate everything. So we tend now to avoid it, and I must say it’s rather a pity. Those early days before all the ruckus — those were our Eden here, in a way.
Despite the wistful note at the word “Eden,” Russell was doing a bit of probing with this Biblical reference. He was especially sensitive to Wittgenstein’s newfound religiosity, remembering Wittgenstein’s air of disapproval at his freethinking ways after the war. Russell also saw the wooden cross around Max’s neck, causing him to wonder what manner of man this ox was, though he had an idea. In the meantime, Russell’s patronizing explanation had had its effect on Max, whose stubborn ears were back. Max took hard reckoning at this one who thought himself so slick. To him, there was nothing more hateful than to hear a sworn atheist bandy the Bible.
As it turned out, Russell sized up Max rather shrewdly. He could see that Max was not nearly as simple as he let on, just as he could detect, amid the expansive gestures and masking playfulness, the German’s clouded hostility.
