An Artist and a Magician

by Hugh Fleetwood

  Of the two further blows that fell, one took the form of a special delivery letter from Bernard, who wrote from California saying, in effect, that after all these lonely misanthropic years abroad he had suddenly discovered the joys of grandchildren and family, and had decided to stay on there, maybe just returning to Rome for a week in November to dispose of his apartment and arrange for the shipping of furniture etc.; and the other took the form of a telephone call from Betty, who said that he mustn’t laugh, and it was hilarious, and when she had heard she had just had to call him and tell him because everyone else was acting as if it were a tragedy and only he would be able to see the funny side of it, but—you’ll never believe it, and wait for it—I’m broke. Broke! Yes, me! Isn’t it just too comic for words. Absolutely stony broke. Not a sou to my name. Don’t you think that’s glorious, Wilbur. Old Betty, broke! Of course it’s a mistake, she added quickly, and with a note of steel in her soft Southern drawl—any real suggestion of poverty being a little too risqué even for her boundless good nature and sense of humour—and it wasn’t permanent, of course. Just terribly temporary. It was some silly lawyer’s mistake in the complicated trust fund she had been setting up for her children, that had resulted in—well, it wasn’t worth going into, and anyway she didn’t have any idea how it had happened herself, and of course the bank was going to tide her over until it was all settled, but—

  ‘You are all right Wilbur dear, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes of course,’ Wilbur murmured as he sat staring at the phone, unable to believe the words that were coming out of it, and feeling anything but all right.

  ‘I don’t mean healthwise. I mean—you know,’ Betty laughed graciously. The merest idea of money always amused her … ‘Because I really shall be a little strapped for a while, and the banks charge such a terrible amount of interest on loans that I don’t want them to give me more than’s strictly necessary. Really I think my lawyers should pay, because it’s their fault. But that’ll mean suing them, and—well, we’ll see,’ she concluded coldly.

  What could Wilbur say?

  ‘Oh don’t worry about me, Betty,’ he cried, hoping to convey a hint of insincerity. ‘I’m fine my dear, thank you.’

  But if insincerity there was, Betty preferred not to hear it.

  ‘Oh good,’ she laughed, her soft grey voice rippling like a confederate flag in the wind.

  ‘But what a bore for you.’

  ‘I know. But it’ll be an experience, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned from you dear, it’s to welcome new experiences with open arms.’

  ‘How’d the operation go?’ Wilbur asked solicitously, knowing that Betty hated anyone to mention her efforts at restoration.

  ‘I had to put it off for a few days, with all this going on.’ was the slightly chilly reply. Then, since Betty’s good humour really was unquenchable: ‘And it’s just as well. Can you imagine if I’d had to fight with my lawyers with my face all bandaged up. I might have done the old wreck permanent damage.’

  ‘Oh, Betty,’ Wilbur protested.

  ‘Broke and broken,’ Betty insisted.

  ‘Oh Betty, you’re impossible,’ Wilbur sighed.

  ‘Oh Wilbur, I adore you,’ Betty cried.

  *

  Was it possible? No it was not. Again and again Wilbur asked and answered this question, as he lay grey and fat and sweating on his bed, sipping scotch straight from the bottle. Not even in a Victorian novel would such a sequence of events have been allowed. Even the most cynical author would have allowed a week or two to pass before hurling such similar thunderbolts at his poor suffering hero. And then there wouldn’t have been four—or five, if you included the letter from the tax-department. Two, or three at the very most. But to have everything come crashing down over just one weekend—no, it was too much. It wasn’t possible. That did presume the existence of an organized plot. And again and again, and with ever more insistence, Wilbur returned to this theory; until, by the time he had finished the first bottle of whisky, he wouldn’t have abandoned it for anything on earth. There had to be some concerted plan to get him, and there was. But what had he done, he asked himself plaintively, to deserve such a fate? All right, he did, to a certain extent, sponge off Pam and Jim and Betty and Bernard; and all right, he did it—generally—in the name of an art he hardly practised any more. And yes, perhaps he did give too much importance to his social life, and should have forced himself to take time off and really sit down and finish a novel, or a collection of poems, or something.

  Yet—he wasn’t an evil man. And Pam and Jim and Betty and Bernard did have more money than they knew what to do with. And though it was easy to say, and perhaps a little hard for the philistines to take, his very way of life was an art, even if he didn’t set it down on paper or canvas. And though his social life was immensely, possibly too important for him, it wasn’t an empty, vacuous social life, involving dressing up, gossiping, going to night-clubs and being ‘smart’; all shallow show and pathetic pretence. He really did only have his dinner parties because he cared about people, and felt that people—the unlikeliest people, the most assorted people—somehow blossomed and were touched with a sort of magic under his roof; discovered lights in themselves they didn’t know they had, heard music they had never heard before; saw views they had never dreamed existed. He did have the gift of stirring life in the lifeless, giving hope to the hopeless—and even exorcising devils from the possessed, and unhappy. He made the unimaginative dream, the complacent question themselves, and the joyless laugh. And surely this was the work of the poet—even if a world that gave too much importance to the product and not enough to the production, that cared too much for the eternal and not enough for the merely mortal, didn’t consider it as such. So why—

  But there was no answer. And though all that had happened might be impossible, it had, nevertheless, happened. In one long weekend the entire structure of his life had collapsed. And as he lay in the ruins, with his sheets clinging to him and the whisky bottle in his hand, he told himself that while there were only two ways out for him now—one, by more or less giving up his social life and finding, if he could, some mundane, serious, and hopefully well-paying ‘job’, and the other by continuing as he was but doing translations every day of his life from morning till evening until exhaustion or liquor got him (for he knew that if he really worked like that, only a continuous flow of liquor would sustain him)—both ways were so alien to his nature, so depressing to contemplate, that he refused to do so; and would continue to refuse at least until Lillian came tomorrow morning. In the meantime—he would, as he had on Saturday, stay in bed. Only today, unlike Saturday, since there was no earthly chance of anything cheering him, he would get as drunk as he possibly could.

  He got so very drunk in fact that when Lillian—and Aida—did come the following morning, he told them he was sick, and sent them home; though whether because he truly felt too sick to cope with them, or whether because he was still nowhere near ready to make a decision about his future, he neither knew nor could be bothered to think about.

  And still he stayed in bed, and didn’t even answer his phone when it kept on ringing, all afternoon and evening. Why should he, he thought, as it rang for about the twentieth time. It could only be more bad news….

  If he had answered it however, as he discovered next morning when Lillian, remarkably, burst in on him at eight o’clock waving a newspaper in her hand, he wouldn’t have heard altogether bad news. Not bad for him, anyway. What’s more, though his faith in popular saying had been shaken by the five rather than three blows that had fallen on him, he wouldn’t have been able to resist—as he wasn’t that morning—saying to himself as a first reaction that even the darkest clouds had a silver lining.

  Because Lillian, as she ran into his bedroom saying, ‘Oh Wilbur, I tried to call you all yesterday afternoon and last night, but you were never in,’ and ‘Have you heard the news?’ and ‘Oh, it’s terrible,’ eventually calmed down enough to inform
him that Pam, poor Pam, poor, dear, kind, sweet, gentle old Pam—was dead.

  ‘Oh my God no,’ Wilbur cried, trying to look as distraught as Lillian sounded—and leaping out of bed as nimbly as a ten-year-old. ‘Oh, how dreadful.’

  ‘Oh, it’s awful.’

  ‘I’m so shocked I don’t know what to do. Get me a glass of brandy, dear child.’

  ‘I tried to get in touch with you, but you weren’t in.’

  ‘No, I was out. Oh, my God. Poor Pam.’

  ‘Oh, it’s awful.’

  ‘A brandy, dear child.’

  ‘Her maid found her yesterday morning.’

  ‘She was so happy when I saw her Friday afternoon. And she seemed so well. She was talking about starting a whole new life. Oh dear. Poor Pam.’

  ‘Oh poor Pam.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ Wilbur agreed.

  It was another five minutes before Lillian could be prevailed on to bring him a brandy, and another fifteen before he was able to sit down with the newspaper and read the details of ‘the old Roman resident found dead.’ But when he had done so, he started, at last, to feel genuinely upset himself. Partly because he had known and been very fond of Pam for so long, and was sorry that she was dead in spite of the way she had behaved the other day, and partly because of the manner of her death. For it seemed she had fallen over in her garden while bending to turn off the hose, had broken her pelvis, been unable to get up or move, and had lain on the flooded earth for at least twenty-four hours before the end had come; on Saturday night, it was calculated….

  ‘Oh, how dreadful,’ Wilbur whispered again, though quite sincerely now, and felt himself going pale. He remembered how intensely he had wished just that death on Pam. And he was a magician….

  But worse was in store. And as he read on to the end of the article, upset was hardly sufficient to describe the emotion he felt. Because there was a peculiar and poetic detail about Pam’s death that the paper reported at some length; a detail that was terrifying….

  Apparently Pam, as she had lain on her back in her garden, had tried to leave a last message on the gravel path on which she had fallen; a message which she had scratched with a small stick, but most of which had been washed away by the still gushing hose. All that remained in fact, according to the paper (and it was strange that she had written her message in Italian) were two words: ‘Viva il—’. What could that last word have been? ‘Duce’ was the one that sprang most immediately to mind. But unless the old lady had lost her mind as she lay there (which was possible), and had suddenly been carried away by a fit of nostalgia for the Mussolini it was said she had once admired, it wasn’t likely. No, the journalist who wrote the article said. Surely it was more probable that this grand old character, who had lived such a long, varied, and interesting life, had written some positive message on the gravel when she had realized that her time had come. ‘Viva il mondo’, maybe. Or ‘Viva il sole’. It was heartwarming to think so, anyway….

  What was terrifying to Wilbur about this was not so much the report itself of this mysterious message, as the photograph of it some enterprising newsman had taken. Because from the photograph one saw that Pam hadn’t actually written ‘Viva’, but had abbreviated it in the Italian fashion. Had scratched, therefore, simply a large W. So her message read ‘W il—’. Which might mean ‘Viva il’ to everyone else, but to Wilbur, at least, were quite clearly the first three letters of his name….

  He shivered. Oh yes. He was a magician. He had willed that death on Pam—and she had known it. And in her last moments she had tried to accuse him of it. What was more, she had possibly even succeeded. So that if it hadn’t been for the hose washing the gravel away, at this very moment the police—

  ‘Another brandy dear child, please. Quickly.’

  Lillian obviously saw the urgency this time, and brought the brandy immediately. ‘Are you all right?’ she whispered, sounding surprised by the intensity of this delayed reaction.

  ‘Yes, quite all right,’ Wilbur gasped. ‘It was just that I was asleep when you burst in and I couldn’t really take in what you were saying. But—oh dear.’

  ‘Do you think her daughter’s been told?’ Lillian asked, becoming calm now that Wilbur had taken the burden of dismay on himself.

  ‘I don’t know, dear child. Perhaps you’d better call the British Embassy and find out.’

  ‘Shall I do it now?’

  ‘Yes, I think that would be a very good idea,’ Wilbur murmured, eager to be alone for a while. ‘And if they haven’t, find Bobbie’s name in my book and send her a cable.’

  ‘Right,’ Lillian said, and went away; and, ‘Oh, how dreadful,’ Wilbur whispered, yet again, to himself.

  He had killed Pam, of whom he was very fond. He was an artist and a magician, and with his art and his magic he had killed her….

  Oh, how dreadful….

  He really was a magician though, a tiny and hesitantly self-satisfied voice—the voice that he had heard in Pam’s garden the other day—breathed inside him. He really did have power, it went on slightly louder—not having been told to shut up. And he who had thought—admittedly on Saturday, before the two further blows had fallen, but nevertheless—that these disasters had been sent to try him and that he would overcome them, was being proved right. He was going to overcome them, the voice inside him practically cheered now. Of course he was. And having overcome them he would be—oh what would he be? Only that which he had always been. But more obviously now, more dazzlingly. Magnificent. A master. A genius….

  The blood rushed back to his head and he thought he was going to have a heart attack. He had never felt so intoxicated in his life. Never so wildly, exaltedly drunk. And it wasn’t the brandy that had done it, either. It was his own blood. It was his own spirit. Yes! It was that that was intoxicating him, making him fly, swim, sparkle, shine. And while he was truly sorry that Pam was dead, and while he had been fond of her—dear, crazy, dotty old Pam—he was also thrilled beyond words at this proof of his power. He, who could give life, could also take life. He who could bless could also curse. He who could create could also destroy. He was more than a magician. He was a god! He was—

  And then, just as he had last Friday morning, when sitting on his terrace, he got a hold of himself. Oh, you silly old fool, he shouted. You stupid, weak-minded, wicked old man. And shut up, he roared at the hysterical voice burbling and cackling inside him. Good God! He was going mad. Just because he happened to have imagined Pam’s death—and it wasn’t difficult; it was a very risky thing for her to do, stay in the garden by herself, and was certain to end in tragedy sooner or later—he started believing he had caused it. Wicked, vicious, stupid old man! And if Pam had started writing his name in the gravel, it was probably because, being a mean old bitch as well as a dear dotty old thing, she had been trying to leave a message to Bobbie about the money he owed her. It was also quite natural, since, being almost the last thing she had spoken about before she had had her fatal fall, it was the only thing that had stayed in her frightened and befuddled brain; been the only straw of reality and safety to which she had hoped to cling as she was swept outwards on the hose water into the dark dreamlike sea of her own death.

  Of course that was the explanation, and really he must get a grip on himself and not allow himself to have such insane fantasies. Magician indeed. God. Really.

  But you did want her to die and will her to die, the voice inside him said sulkily.

  Yes I know, Wilbur muttered, not wanting to shout at it again, and searching for—and finding—a compromise. But that doesn’t mean to say I killed her. She just happened to die in the way I’d planned. No. Not planned. Fantasized about. All right?

  All right, the voice said, sounding a little sly, and smug; as if realizing that, not having been banished completely, it would always be able to speak again, make a comeback, at some future date.

  *

  The British Embassy had informed Bobbie of her mother’s death, and the following morning
—Thursday—she arrived in Rome.

  That afternoon Pam was buried in the Protestant Cemetery.

  Wilbur took Lillian to the funeral, and sent her home in a taxi afterwards. But he stayed on. And when the rather small band of mourners—most of Pam’s friends were either dead, out of town, too old to go out in the August afternoon, or didn’t want to be reminded of the fate that awaited them all, soon—had disappeared, he took Bobbie’s arm, and they walked arm in arm round the peaceful, pleasant graveyard.

  ‘Mother always wanted to be buried here,’ the tall, fair, and very sensible woman said, looking at the green almost English grass, the flowers, and the tall dark trees.

  ‘One couldn’t have a nicer place,’ Wilbur murmured, uncertain as to what tone to adopt in the circumstances.

  ‘Thank you so much for all your help.’

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ Wilbur breathed.

  ‘I didn’t put you out asking you to stay on, did I?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘It’s just that I do want everything to be settled as quickly as possible, and you were mother’s closest friend, and so I thought—oh, you know. You might be able to tell me if she wanted any little thing to go to some special person. And what to do with her paintings. And, oh, you know. Everything. But I really don’t want to take up any of your time. I know you’re always terribly busy.’

  ‘Oh, my dear,’ Wilbur—who hadn’t done a stroke of work since last Sunday—repeated, patting Bobbie’s hand.

  ‘Also there’s one thing in particular I wanted to talk to you about. You see mother made a very simple will about forty years ago, leaving me everything. Which is all very well, but also—well, a little mean, I can’t help thinking. After all, I’m not hard up myself, and I lead quite a simple life, and I’m not likely to have any children myself. And she really did have a fair amount of money. So what I thought—and this is what I’d like your advice about—is that I’d like to set up a foundation or something for young writers or painters or composers. Something that was close to mother’s heart.’