‘And then, leaving Bernard and Arthur stranded, he drove the woman home—though he didn’t know how to drive—and then, either by accident or design, crashed the car. And then he came back to New York, was sick for a week, phoned Arthur to make sure he was all right, and then got on a plane and came to Nice.’
Betty raised her head at last, and gazed, quiveringly, into the fire. She had tears in her eyes.
‘Can you imagine, Wilbur,’ she said again. ‘Can you imagine doing that to two seventeen-year-old boys? And I’m convinced that that was why Tommy, later, had this thing about Jim. Because even though he told me about it, he was never able to laugh about it as he did about everything else, and obviously deep down he was so traumatized that when he met Jim, I’m sure he saw in him a combination of both Bernard and in a way, that prostitute. He was trying to exorcize his demons. What’s more,’ and now the tear-glittering eyes were closed, ‘he would have succeeded. Or perhaps he had succeeded. I don’t know. Maybe that was why Jim had him killed. But I do know that if it hadn’t been for Bernard, Tommy would never have’—a wince—‘fallen in love with Jim, and he’d still be alive today.’
A long, long pause; the highest, softest note spun out in the silent room. And then the final swoop, with a bend of the body, a clinching of the fist, the searchingest, deepest stare, and the faintest tremble of a smile on the pain-racked mouth.
‘Oh Wilbur dear, work your magic for me just once more. Won’t you? Please? For me. And then—well, now I’ve got all the trust fund business sorted out, and the children are all taken care of, I’ve got far more money than I need. And then the two of us—oh Wilbur, we could have such fun. Go everywhere, see everything. And you’ll never have any more problems. And I know how difficult things are for you sometimes. But that’s all over now. Just a serene old age, and happiness, and—oh Wilbur—you will do it for me, won’t you? Work your magic one more time. Just one last time, for Betty. Say you will my dear. Please. Say you will.’
But Wilbur said nothing, and simply smiled at Betty for a while as he held her hand—and then turned his eyes towards the fire, and let the scented olive wood flare up and burn in his brain.
*
Bernard, three days later on the phone, was, as ever, altogether blunter.
‘Jesus Christ, you’re getting dangerous. That’s two gone now, and one to go.’
‘Oh Bernard, you old fool,’ Wilbur said, playing the part of the Wilbur of old, but now feeling sick as he did so. Why had he lied about Pam, he asked himself. To Bernard, of all people; the one person he could, in the final analysis, have relied on if he had to. Because now, of course—
‘As soon as I heard on the radio that someone had had their heart stuck on a spit, I thought that sounds like Wilbur’s touch. And then when I heard it was Simpson, I knew it. Christ Almighty. You’re a fucking maniac.’
‘Oh Bernard, you know perfectly well I didn’t do it.’
It was a plea from the heart.
‘Of course you did. Don’t you start getting a guilty conscience.’
‘Oh Bernard—’
‘And stop “oh Bernarding” me. If there’s one thing I can’t stand it’s repentance. You’re not repenting are you?’
‘No, of course not. Why should I repent?’
‘Well that’s a relief. Where the hell have you been for the last two weeks. That Irish answering service of yours was all evasive every time I called, and just said, “Wilbur’s not in,” or “Wilbur’s in the country.” What were you doing? Lying low?’
‘No. For the first four days after—what happened—I didn’t feel like speaking to anyone. And then I was in the country.’
‘At this time of year?’
‘I’m trying to get on with my novel.’
‘Oh novel crap. You know you haven’t written a word for years.’
‘Well I’m trying to now. Insurance for my old age.’
‘Oh balls. I’m going to have to be your insurance for your old age, otherwise I’ll go the way that Winter woman and Simpson went. By the way, how are you for money? Not seeing blood in front of your eyes for want of cash, are you?’
‘I’m quite all right for the moment, thank you.’
He had found a cheque for a thousand dollars tucked in the pocket of his jacket when Betty had dropped him off outside his apartment yesterday evening….
‘Just as well. But I’ll tell you one thing, Wilbur George, you’re not getting any promises of permanent support until you’ve done away with Madam Betty.’
‘Oh Bernard—’
‘I’m serious. You can’t stop now. You’ve rid the world of two of its major scourges, and now there’s only one left. And she’s the worst of the three.’
‘Oh, you’re an impossible old fool.’
‘And you’re a fucking maniac. I always knew it though. What are you doing for dinner tonight?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then come and eat with me, and we can work out the plan together.’ A gruff old chuckle. ‘Jesus, you’ve made me feel quite young again. What do you want to eat? I’ll make you something special.’
‘Heart,’ Wilbur said, in spite of himself; and couldn’t—also in spite of himself—keep a smile off his lips. Oh God, he thought, perhaps I really am going mad, if I’m starting to enjoy this nightmare. Starting to laugh at it all, as if it weren’t serious any more.
*
But though it was all just as serious, just as much of a nightmare as ever, and though he still could see nothing funny about murder, he couldn’t help enjoying himself that evening with Bernard. Just as he had enjoyed himself when he had come to see Bernard after Pam’s death. That dark, gloomy apartment did something to his sense of balance. He couldn’t help laughing….
Because as he had said on the phone, Bernard had never seemed so young and cheerful; so full of school-boyish enthusiasm. His little white hands tugged at his beard; his big cardigan-covered belly shook continually with spasms of mirth.
‘Poison,’ he said over the port. ‘That’s what’s most suitable for Betty. A nice fantastic Southern potion, mixed in a mint julep.’
‘Oh Bernard—’
‘Poison for the poisonous.’
‘What do you have against poor Betty?’
‘Poor Betty my ass. That hag has done more damage in this world than the atom bomb.’
‘You’re exaggerating.’
‘No I’m not. Jesus Christ. I don’t know if I ever told you this, but her youngest—who came to a nasty end, rumour has it—and my youngest were friends once, when they were kids. One year when they had just turned eighteen Madam Betty took them off for the summer to some darlin’ ole mansion down in your part of the world—Louisiana. I was driving down to Florida for some reason, so I thought I’d call in and see them, unannounced. I arrived one evening at about nine, and do you know what I found? Your dear Betty dressed as a man, with blackface on, my Arthur wearing a confederate uniform, and her son and heir dressed as an ante-bellum Southern lady, with an old gown that woman kept in her attic for her “charades”, she called them.’
‘Oh Betty’s such a mad creature,’ Wilbur laughed.
‘You’re damn right she’s mad. Not only had she dressed up two eighteen-year-old boys, and herself as a slave, but they were all high on cocaine. A great silver tray full of the stuff there was, and Madam saying, “Oh Bernard dear, have a sniff yourself.” I dragged young Arthur off immediately, I can tell you, but we had problems with drugs for five years after that. She might have killed the boy, or turned him into an addict for life, if he hadn’t had such a strong character and been able to kick the habit. Jesus!’
‘How is he now?’
‘Arthur? Oh, he’s all right. Or no worse than any of my others. Married, with five milk-fed children.’
‘I’m sure you’re exaggerating, anyway,’ Wilbur said; who could no more believe Bernard than he had been able to believe Betty herself. Perhaps, somewhere, there was a grain of truth in their stories,
just as there was in his own, of his childhood, but—no, they couldn’t be trusted, either of them. Perhaps, he thought, it was his own influence on the two of them. Two people who had come under his spell; had been touched by his magic….
‘Of course I’m not exaggerating. You ask Arthur if you don’t believe me. Or rather, don’t, even if you could, because that’s all a part of his life he tried to forget. He won’t have the name of Betty Bartlett mentioned anywhere in the state of California. And also that’s not a half of what she’s done. I’d like to know how many other people she sacrificed on the Southern gothic altar of her craziness before the States got too hot for her and she fled here. Her first husband, for instance—the one she got the loot from. And I’d like to know what did happen to that boy of hers. Tommy, I think his name was. He probably tried to rebel against Momma, and she had him locked up in a mad-house. That’s what I heard, anyway. He was involved in something very unpleasant, and the only way to save him from the gas chamber was by having him put away. He’s probably still locked up, drugged to the eye-balls and swishing around pretending he’s Scarlett O’Hara. No Wilbur, it’s time she was stopped, and poison’s the answer. Why don’t you make a dinner for her, and slip something in the spare-ribs? I’ll come if you do, and even eat some of that filthy Southern stuff you serve.’
‘Filthy it is not.’
‘Well I’ll go so far as to say that it’s great if it’ll mean the end of Betty,’ Bernard said. And then, carried away now by a real fit of laughter, and taking off his spectacles to wipe his eyes, he cackled, ‘Jesus, I’d love to see it. Why don’t you do it?’
‘Oh Bernard,’ Wilbur protested.
‘If you don’t, you won’t get another cent from me,’ the old man jeered. ‘Or I’ll go even further, and tell the police what you’ve done so far. Good God, yes, I think I shall blackmail you Wilbur! If you don’t do away with the Bartlett woman, I shall tell the whole world what a fucking maniac you are. Jesus Christ, I swear I will,’ he chuckled.
And, Wilbur thought, out of a sense of rumbustious fun, Bernard would be capable of doing that. He’d do it as a joke of course, but nevertheless….
*
Before he went home that night he also managed to get out of Bernard his reasons, or his ostentible reasons, for hating Pam and Jim.
Pam, according to Bernard, on the excuse that she—at the age of sixty—wanted the man herself, had come between ‘a very good friend of mine’ who was in love with Bobbie, and Bobbie—who was also in love with the man. In fact, for this friend—a fine person, a widower, who had been a real saint with his sickly, neurotic wife—and the tall fair English girl it had been the great love of their lives. But Pam, with lies and fabrications and falsehoods, had managed to so dirty and destroy their love, that eventually neither of the two could face it any longer, and Bobbie had fled to Australia, and the widower been condemned to a life-time of emptiness and regrets. ‘And I’m not a sentimental man, Wilbur, but I can tell you. What that woman did …’
Jim’s crime—as Bernard told it—was of a different nature. ‘Jesus Christ,’ the bearded old man said, ‘anyone can tell you I’m not a communist. But sometimes I think that the reds have their points. Because I got involved in some business dealings that jolly old Jim was making in the thirties, when he was a young man. And I can tell you Wilbur George, that your friend Simpson’s fortune was made—or at least multiplied—by a series of the most dishonest, crookedest dealings I’ve ever come across in my life. And I’m as fond of an honest crook as anyone else, but there was nothing honest about Jim Simpson. He seemed to take delight in any transaction that would actively hurt people. That would split up families, cause strikers to be shot, widows thrown out into the streets, innocent people intimidated and maimed. He was the worst sort of gangster; the type who sits in his office while other people do his dirty work for him, and who proclaims himself a liberal because he doesn’t mind associating with all the most violent thugs in town—in his bed. No Wilbur, he had it coming to him, and I’m glad, I’m really glad he got it.’
However, if Wilbur listened to all this in silence, and if, in the course of the evening, he did laugh with Bernard, when he came out into the street afterwards—again, exactly as had happened before when he had told Bernard how he had killed Pam—he was struck once more by the mess he had got himself into, and how very unfunny it was.
And it was so absurd, he told himself as he pulled his black coat around him and started to walk slowly home through the cold, narrow, deserted streets. It was absolutely absurd. All he had to do was say ‘stop it’. To Betty. To Bernard. And to himself. To say stop it, and then resume his old life. And of course neither Betty nor Bernard could do anything—apart, maybe, from not give him any more money. But at this stage he didn’t even care about that any more. He could always find some way of making ends meet, and if he couldn’t—well, he would just have to tighten his belt a little. He didn’t like the idea of course, but anything was better than this ridiculous nightmare. Anyway, even if after a period, they would probably go on helping him just as they always had. They were both of them just a bit mad at the moment, their heads turned by the deaths of Pam and Jim—deaths that had produced and released these fantasies they had recounted about each other, whose origins probably lay in some banal and trivial squabble they had let get out of hand, and had never bothered to settle with a simple phone-call or postcard. Yes, he thought, that was surely the explanation. They both felt ashamed of themselves for having been divided for so long by something stupid and petty, and now that it was too late to make amends to the dead, thought to justify themselves by making up these wild, melodramatic stories. That had to be the explanation—even of Bernard’s animosity towards Betty, who was still alive, and vice versa. Because they had obviously, long ago, been friendly, if not actual friends. And now that they were both old, and with the deaths of Pam and Jim before them, they couldn’t face admitting that their quarrel, too, was trivial; that they had been separated for all this time simply by pettiness, prejudice, and pride. For if they had admitted that, it would have meant admitting that their other quarrels, which they could no longer make up, had been ridiculous. So it was easier for them to lump the living with the dead, pretend, to themselves and to him, that there had been unforgivable wickednesses in the past, and hope that death would carry the other off before the cat got out of the bag, and revealed itself to be, indeed, just a cat, and not a four-headed, blood-stained monster.
They were getting old….
Me too, Wilbur thought, as the January wind made his cheeks sting and something in his back suddenly ache. Old and foolish. With all my talk of magic and nonsense, with all my silly dreams. I might bring out the best in people at times, but at other times I bring out the worst. And recently, with Betty and Bernard in particular, these have been other times. But now, really, is the time to say stop, to sober up and put an end to all this. And I shall. I shall. Because while there is nothing funny—and not only is murder not funny, nor is the spectacle of three people, who should know better, making idiots of themselves—there is, really, no nightmare either. We have all just been slightly mad for the last few months, and me more than anyone.
We’re all just getting old….
*
That night, for the first time perhaps since last August, Wilbur slept not only for a long time, but also well; and when he woke he felt far better than he had for a long time. He felt, in fact, not only as sober as he had last night after leaving Bernard’s, but also relaxed and immensely relieved, as if he had, more than having survived just the doubts and difficulties of the last few months, survived the doubts and difficulties of a whole lifetime. He felt calm, cleansed—even, plump and battered though he was, beautiful. And if, as he had told himself while walking home, he was getting old, maybe this was the famous serenity of old age. It would be wonderful if it lasted for ever….
And even after he had gotten up, washed his face, had some coffee, and fed Philip, he s
till felt serene. So serene that he went, wearing a heavy red sweater, onto his terrace, and having merely smiled towards the cold, bright morning and the blue, brilliant sky—smiled at it, welcomed it, and felt happy to see it, but not indulged in any of that nonsense about bringing it to life; of course it was alive, whether he was there or not, and would be when he was no longer alive himself—made some decisions. First, he told himself, he would cut down his expenses, whether Betty and Bernard went on helping him or not; it was both humiliating and unnecessary to have to rely on other people all the time, when he was perfectly capable of relying on himself. Then second—which was perhaps a corollary of the first—he decided that he would drastically reduce his social life. For a start he would begin to be a little bit selective about whom he asked, and would not ask someone a second time, just to have an extra person at the table, if he hadn’t really liked them the first, and then he would start accepting more invitations himself. In the past he had nearly always refused to go to other people’s lunches or dinners, though of course he was asked almost every day, on the theory that the party, not being his, wasn’t altogether under his control; couldn’t, completely, be orchestrated by him. He was—or was afraid he might be—simply one of the tricks, and not the conjurer himself. But now that too—that infantile egoism, for it was nothing else—would be set aside, and he would accept invitations at least as often as he gave them. What was more, he told himself, he would go and be content just to be one of the guests; and wouldn’t, as he sometimes had, try rather grotesquely to monopolize the whole evening.
The third thing he decided was that from now on he would divide his day rigidly into two parts; in the first part doing the translations which would pay the bills, and in the second working on his novel—which would be, apart from anything else, as he had told Bernard, a form of insurance for his old age. And that the novel would be finished, would be good, would be published and successful, he had no doubts at all on this clear, crisp morning….
An Artist and a Magician Page 13
