The Revolt of Aphrodite

by Lawrence Durrell

  Or as in the film where the Parthenon by celluloid moonlight seems fashioned in a modern soap; and Io’s face faceless with the interior preoccupations of the silent stone women with snail-locks. Stone head with ring? “Once a cut lip which kissing gave back salt and wine, pepper and loot”. On airless nights in the desert Benedicta and I climbed into cold showers and then without drying took the car to ride over the coiling dunes, to let the moon dry us out. “Death like hair, growing by inchmeal”. Voice of Hippo: “Of course they are starving; the humble always have the biggest wombs.” And then Julian’s chop-logic. (I must see his hands.) I awake with a cry, the telephone is ringing; but by the time I reach it it has gone dead, the caller has rung off. Dozing off again I dream that I enter my office to find a loaded revolver lying on my blotter.

  Nevertheless … I nearly had him next day at Crockford’s; I had discovered that he often dropped in for a flutter. Indeed that very evening he had lost an impressive sum. But I was just too late; he had been spirited away by a phone-call. There was still the butt of a cigar burning in the silver ash tray by an armchair. The manservant showed it to me as one might show someone the bones of a martyr. I watched the cynical smoke curling upwards in the warm air. The tables were buzzing—all these people had seen him, he had been there standing shoulder to shoulder with them, or sitting smiling over a hand, really existing.

  Then again I overheard a clerk telephoning some bookings to Nathan; Julian was going to Paris in the Golden Arrow. I noted the numbers of his reservation and with a light heart (and lighter head) I went into the Strand and, somewhat to my own surprise, bought an automatic with six cartridges. I must have looked vaguely furtive, like a monk buying a french letter. Nor was it anything to do with aggressive notions—rather those of self-defence. But the action puzzled me a little. I sat at my desk and cleaned it respectfully, waiting for the taxi which would take me to Victoria. But once again I was bedevilled by traffic holdups. I burst past the ticket-collector and broke into a ragged gallop for my train was sliding smoothly out of the station. Coach six. Coach six. I redoubled my efforts. A window seat, number twenty-six, about the middle. Panting, I glimpsed the six on the side of a dining car and drew level with it. But the machine had gathered speed now and I had to put on another spurt to gain on the coveted carriage. Right down to the end of the platform I held it, gaining only inches.

  Yes, I drew slowly abreast of Julian’s seat, but just not enough to see his face; but I did see his hands! They were not the hands of Jocas, no. Very fine, small, white, Napoleonic fingers, holding a cigar. The hands of a manipulative surgeon, intricate, subtle fingers; but no face, I could not reach the face. I collapsed on a trolley at the end of the platform. Strangely enough I felt elated and a little frightened, perhaps even a shade triumphant. I had seen his hands, at any rate, or rather one of them. I left the automatic in a litter bin outside the station, burying it under some sodden newspapers. Its existence in my pocket was a puzzle which would not yield to analysis; yet once rid of it, the neuralgic pain between the eyes abated. I went down for a shilling wash and brush-up for the sheer curiosity of examining my face in the mirror. I looked amazingly well and quite handsome in an ugly way.

  Yes, it was with a distinctly new feeling of relief that I found my way back to the office, to the plush-carpeted cage where I was surrounded with all the paraphernalia of the creative life. (Some new protos had appeared: I pawed them appreciatively.) The secretaries chirped in that white light (which turned fair powdered skins to buckram) excited by the quaint wheels and cogs. Quite suddenly I had lost all interest in Julian, in his identity; my mind had put him aside. I stood at the window, staring out at the beautiful austerities of my winter London, wondering about the symbiosis of plants, and jingling the change in my pockets. I jest of course, for the backdrop of my consciousness was still crammed with the ominous images of the country house where Benedicta walked, with pale concentration, as if waiting for something to explode. She strained to listen to something which was just beyond the reach of human ears. She might even say “Hush” in the middle of a conversation; and once as I walked across the hall towards her I found her eyes fixed upon something which was behind me, something which advanced towards her as I did. She shrank away from me; then, with an effort of will, shook her head as a swimmer does to clear the water from his eyes, and re-emerged, smiling and normal and relieved.

  Then one afternoon I arrived to find a long line of hearse-like buses drawn up outside the office, and the whole staff of Merlin’s in a ferment. I thought at first it was a funeral, everyone was dressed up in their best black. Extraordinary characters whom I had never seen before in my life poured out the nooks and crannies of the building—all clad with sepulchral respectability; they represented the differing totem-clans of our establishment—the accounts men like cassowaries, the legal men like warthogs or rhinos, the policy-makers like precious owls. Baum, superbly clad and ringed in a fashion which reminded one of a Blue Admiral flirting its wings, was busying himself with the organisation of this tramping crowd, now rushing to the window to assure himself that the hearses were being filled in an orderly manner, now marching up and down the corridors, tapping on doors and calling hoarsely: “Anybody there?” Clearly someone of national importance had turned up his toes. Baum caught sight of me and started: “You’ll be late” he cried tapping his sideburns. “What the devil is it?” I cried, and the good Baum lowering his head to an invisible lectern uttered the reproachful words: “The great Exhibition, Mr. Charlock. You mustn’t miss that.” I had completely forgotten about the affair. I could see Baum running a reproachful eye up and down my town-clothes. “Come as you are” he said. “There won’t be time to change now. I’ll tell your chauffeur.”

  So I set off following this long cortège of apparent mourners across the star-prinkled snow-gashed London, jerked to a halt everywhere by traffic blocks (Baum gesticulating furiously), skidding in mush and viscid mud. Had it been a funeral cortège, whom would we have elected corpse? Fortunately there was a well-stocked cocktail bar in the car, and I reinforced my resolution with a couple of strong whiskies, filled now with a sense of resignation. By the time we reached the white billiard table of the airport the snow had thickened and dusk was falling. The white lights of cars crossed and recrossed caressing each other, as if making recognition signals as insects do with their antennae. Some mad draughtsman had drawn black lines and parabolas everywhere on the whiteness, so that the whole place looked like some plausible but tentative geodetic diagram. We settled on the central building like a flock of starlings. But inside all was light and space and warm air.

  The exhibition area was roped off by a silk ribbon. Everywhere stood policemen. Baum had told me that the insurance on the pictures was so huge that practically the whole CID would be needed to guard it. It was very well done I suppose. The hessian walls with their treasures confronted a wall of equal length and height which contained specimens of Merlin’s choicest products. I could not help chuckling—perhaps too loudly—and was quenched by the flashing eye of Baum. We clotted up in slow fashion to wait for our guests, milling slowly round, ill at ease. No drinks as yet, no smoking. Much pulling down of waistcoats, shooting of cuffs, adjustment of collars and ties. Some slid on the polished floors. I looked down at the notes my chauffeur had handed me to study a list of the guests. Everyone, literally everyone. Now through the swinging snow-silhouetted doors came the Lord Mayor of London, and the senior members of the diplomatic corps. Ye Gods!

  And was that an illuminated address he held in scroll fashion upon his bosom? The police teemed like perspiration. Nor were the Worshipful Companies outdone by this social display—for here come the Fishmongers, Skinners, Cordwainers, Tanners, Logrollers, Straphangers, and God knows who else. All pink, all suitably embaubled, all determined to see justice done to the arts. As for the diplomats, they provided the overture, so to speak—so enormously complacent, so relaxed, so Luciferian in their elegance. They recognised each other
in the crowd with little false starts of surprise and mock-cries of astonishment. “Fancy meeting you….” They hugged each other with circumspection like actors who “when they embrace, hold each other’s wigs in place”. More snow and more lights. I gradually backed away into the crowd, found my way through a curtain into a small bar which was serving the ordinary passengers. Drink in hand I peeped out upon the dark superstitious horde. And Iolanthe? Well, rumours of her impending divorce were in all the papers together with moody pictures. I suppose it must be the same in all fashionable love-affairs conducted in the public eye—when the attraction wears thin you are left with a heap of soapsuds and a film contract. The hum of the company rose up into the glass roofs as if from a hive of bees or: “as sharp-tongued scythes gossiping in the grass”. I was feeling unsteady but secure. I yawned.

  At last came a swirl of movement outside the great doors; six huge cars settled simultaneously, moth-like, spreading their wings. The police were all expectancy now. A brilliant star-flash of pink light coloured the whole scene—a dense brilliance which gave all out waiting eyes huge shadowed orbits. Cameras began to tattle; the smaller flash of light-bulbs dotted this aurora borealis with harsh white smears. “There she is” cried someone. “Where? Who? There! Who?”

  The doors fell back and she advanced slowly in the centre of a semicircle of business-like looking people, perhaps armed guards? A hundred times more beautiful, of course, and set in the pattern of dark-suited men like the corolla of some rare flower. The famous crescent-shaped smile. She walked slowly with soft and hesitant tread, as if unsure of her role, looking about her almost beseechingly. In a twinkling the foyer was brimming with uninvited lookers-on—passengers, desk-employees, hairdressers, pilots…. The police started to try and prevent this intrusion. The spacious hall diminished in size until they were all shoulder to shoulder.

  Iolanthe advanced with all the shy majesty of a pantomime fairy, certain of her applause and yet still a little diffident about it—I mean the thunderous clapping which swelled up to the roofs. The huge wet false eyelashes set off her features to admiration, giving them shape and grace. Her dress was shot with some sort of bright rayon which made it seem lighted from within. O, she was wired for sense and sound—nor could she escape an expression of alembicated piety as she advanced towards the waiting dignitaries from whom she would unlock the mysteries of Monet, Manet, Pissaro…. And this was the girl who had once asked me what a Manet was. (“It says here that she bought a Manet—is it a sort of motor-bike?”) I hoped she would tell the Mayor that it was a motor-bike. Vaguely, in a shuffling manner, a line of reception was being formed. I was about to duck back into the bar when Baum appeared and caught me forcibly by the elbow and all but frog-marched me into this forming line, whispering “Please, Mr. Charlock. Please” in an agony of supplication. I hadn’t the moral courage to bolt; so found myself elbow to elbow with my fellow slaves in the direct line of march. I closed my eyes for a while to restore my composure and judge how much I might be swaying; but no, I was all right.

  The radiance moved inexorably towards us in slow camera-time. It was possible to see how really beautiful she had become—factitious beauty I don’t doubt, but very real. The smooth skin had burst from its mask of eggwhite fresh as a chick. Smiling eyes and modelled nose. Moreover she accepted her presentations with a modest distinction which won one as she floated effortlessly down the long line of dignitaries. Kallipygos Io, acting the third caryatid for all she was worth. The cameras traversed lecherously across our numbed faces. I was tempted to close my eyes on the ostrich principle in the hope that she would not see me; but I saw the critical gaze of Baum upon me and refrained. The radiant light was upon me at last and here she was with beautifully manicured fingers extended towards me. “Xaire Felix” she said, in a low amused voice, and the little sparks of mischief took possession of the centres of her eyes. Perhaps there was also something a little proudly tremulous there too—she was half pleased and half ashamed of all these trappings of success. I replied hesitantly and in a Pleistocene Age Greek to her greeting. She depressed her cheeks in the faintest suggestion of the old grin and went on, low-voiced, looking about her to judge whether anyone in the line understood what she was saying. “I have been wanting to see you for some time past; I have much to tell you, to ask you.” I nodded humbly and said “Very well”, which sounded stupid. I could see Baum swelling with pride, however, and this encouraged me to add “As soon as you have time, as you wish.” Iolanthe wrinkled her brow briefly and said: “Thank you. Quite soon now.” Then she passed slowly along to where the Mayor stood panting and mopping.

  She made a speech, brief and wise, and obviously written for her; she did not mention motor-bikes in it. Then with a huge pair of dressmaker’s scissors she cut the ribbons. We all poured reverently into the Exhibition behind her. In the heat of battle the mayor had forgotten to deliver his reply to her speech; he stuffed it into his tailcoat and followed manfully. There was nothing further to keep me and I made my way back to the bar for another drink to wait upon her departure—for she might conceivably ask for me again and I didn’t want to hurt Baum. Through the curtain I kept a sharpshooter’s eye on the proceedings, so intently, indeed, that I hardly heeded a thump on the shoulder from behind. Then, spinning round, I found myself face to face with Mrs. Henniker. “My poy!” The last person in the world I was expecting to see! She extended a hand rough as a motoring glove and pumped mine violently; she spoke with untold vivacity. She had not changed by a day—but yes; to begin with she was dressed in country tweeds and natty brogues, a black pullover and pearls. Neatly smart. Her hair had been cut into roguish curls and dyed reddish. She smelt rather heavily of drink, and there was a slight vagueness of eye and speech which suggested—but this might have been sheer emotion at seeing me again. Her skin was rough and red and windblown. She was carrying several folders and a notebook. She moved up and down on her heels with triumphant delight. To my question about what she might be doing there she jerked her head in the direction of the Exhibition and said: “With her. I am Iolanthe’s secretary.” Then, draining her glass at a blow: “The minute she could she wired me to come to her. She has been a daughter to me, and I …” she broke off to order another round “have been a mother to her.” There was no suspecting the deep emotion with which she made me this confidence. “Well I’m damned” I said, and Mrs. Henniker gave a harsh cackle of laughter. “You see?” she said with gleaming eye, raising her glass. “How strange life is?”

  We had several more drinks on the strength of this, and it was only when the goddess was leaving that Mrs. Henniker jumped to her feet and exclaimed that duty called. “Can you come to Paris next week? She prefers to meet you there—because of Julian.” I jumped. “Of course I can come to Paris.” Mrs. H. shook her red wattles and said “Good, then I’ll get in touch with you with all the details. She will have to dress up, you know, and meet you in a café or something. I expect she’ll explain everything to you. But she’s mobbed wherever she goes. And there’s no privacy in the apartment. I’ll ring you. Ah my poy‚ my poy.”

  I drove back to London with a certain pleasurable perplexity, in the company of Baum who was beside himself with joy at the great success. Full justice had been done both to the painters and also to those superior titillations of the thinking mind like the Merlin lawn-mower. “You must have been very moved to see your work bang opposite the great masters” he said. “And she was so beautiful I felt quite afraid. Do you know she gets a million dollars for every film now? A million dollars!” His voice rose in a childish squark of amazement. “She was like a flower, Mr. Charlock.” Yes, an open flower filled with synthetic dew. “A dedicated artist” went on Baum impressively. Indeed. Indeed. Full of the feu sucré. I was jealous of her success.

  It is all very well to be flippant; the truth was that even from the glimpse I had had of the new Iolanthe I had gathered the impression of a maturity and self-possession which made me rather envious. She seemed to me
to be very much her own woman leading a life a good deal more coherent than mine. And yet it had been a pretty good mess had it not? I picked up an evening paper at the corner and took it home to dinner, the better to study the pictures of her and of her husband; it was still in the rumour stage, of course, this impending separation, but it remained undenied, which gave it a certain flavour of validity. Well, all this was nothing to do with me. After dinner Julian rang up and startled me—I mean that I had almost forgotten his existence, and the fact of his voice resurrecting thus caused me a real surprise. He talked about the Exhibition, asked me if it had been a success and so on. I described as much of it as I could; and I had the impression that he positively drank in anything I might have to say about Iolanthe. He seemed to linger over anything concerned with her.

  Then he modestly cleared his throat and said, almost humbly: “She was your mistress once, wasn’t she?” I replied: “No, not this woman. That was quite another girl. She’s completely changed, you know.” Julian’s voice sank a tone. “Yes, I know,” he said “I know.” There was a long silence; then he said: “Has she asked to see you? Will you be meeting?” But, made cautious by long doubting, I replied: “No. We have nothing to say to each other now, I don’t think there is any point.” He grunted, and I could hear him light a match. “I see. By the way, I hear that Benedicta hasn’t been too well this last week. Nash has gone down to see her.” I supposed that meant some more deep sedation. I said nothing. Benedicta rose with my gorge until I was filled with a sensation of nausea.

  “In the meantime” said Julian “I want you to spend a few days in Paris.” He gave me the details of some negotiations which were going on; I duly noted them down on my blotter. “Very well” I said. “Very well.” And that was that; he sounded as if he were speaking from Dublin or Zürich. I returned to my fire and my cigar, full of a certain mild surmise. (To bow or not to bow, that is the question?) Before going to bed I sent a night letter to Mrs. Henniker, asking her to phone me at the office on the morrow.