‘Yes … yes, that’s true of course,’ he admits, more serious now. ‘But I have never wanted to be like that, you see - so unknowing. I am convinced that the part we are aware of, the bit we call ourselves, is really just a fraction of who we really are. Perhaps that’s what attracts some of us to mentalism. I mean, when performing on stage, one can at least pretend. One has all sorts of tricks, ways of making it look as though one can read minds, and so on. It’s all clever illusionist stuff. But in truth, I’ve still always wanted there to be more, for all the answers to be hidden away somewhere - if only we could go deep enough and discover our purpose.’
‘You and me both, Manny.’ Deborah states. ‘But do we really wish to know, my dear? I wonder if it’s such a good idea. They might well pity our ignorance, your angels, but they would understand its necessity. Imagine, if we were suddenly to know, to really see all we have been and might become …why, we would be overwhelmed. To drink the fabled draught of forgetfulness - it is as essential as it is merciful when we are born into this world. Without it we could never be brave, never grow our courage.’
He can only agree as, taking their places on board once again, and to the accompaniment of the rhythmic clattering of the wheels and puffing of their train en route ever closer to the Swiss border, they watch as the miles continue to roll away, the land rising all the while and the snow resting upon the pine branches and rooftops more and more thickly as they go. And in-between the occasional laughter that shields them from the enormity of the task they have undertaken, and as the light outside fades and is replaced by the warm and gently flickering radiance of the carriage lamps, their talk inevitably drifts towards more intimate themes, including the subject of Deborah’s marriage - a delicate one, to be sure, but one which to her surprise she finds easy to discuss with Herman. At their table, generously spaced, as all the tables are, at a discreet distance from one another, they sip their wine and he listens attentively as she relates how jealous her husband had always been of the special bond existing between herself and her daughter. Hugh, she tells him, had really longed for a son, someone to shape in his own image, a miniature ultra-rational champion of industry and commerce. ‘How disappointed he must have been when Poppy came along,’ she concludes in a voice of resignation mingled with amusement.
‘Don’t you think he might have felt you were trying to do the same, in your own way?’ Herman suggests, though without reproach.
‘Well, yes, I suppose he did think that,’ she replies. ‘In fact I know he did. But I endeavoured always to strike a balance. I would introduce Poppy to the realm of the spirit, explain to her the teachings of religion - and of the mysteries, too; of the tarot, astrology, palmistry, and so on. But I taught her also to be strong in games and sports - because, believe it or not, Herman, I was once a pretty good tennis player. Then I would tell her stories of all the powerful and courageous women who had lived - about Hypatia of Alexandria, of Hildegard of Bingen, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Elizabeth the Virgin Queen and all those who are so often sidelined when men write their history books. Yes - all this so one day she might become not only a beautiful woman but a clever one, too - a whole person with faith and intuition as well as intelligence and guile, a woman brave enough to reach out and take the world by the scruff of the neck - but a woman for all that.’
‘And did it work?’ he asks.
‘Oh yes,’ Deborah replies confidently, taking from her bag a little photo of her daughter, and which she insists on him keeping. ‘When you meet her, Herman - and I am sure you will one day - then you will see for yourself. She is everything I described, and more, the perfect companion - and yet with all the charm and determination to inspire those around her and make their dreams come true.’
In time, with the formalities of passing the Swiss border completed, they return to their compartment where their thoughts gravitate more and more towards their destination. It is late, and knowing it will be even later until they can reach their hotel in Bern, they find themselves surrendering to a pleasant drowsiness. Closing his eyes he listens to the rhythmic noises of the train once more and wonders how he has come to be here, on this journey, in the company of someone who even just a few short weeks ago was a complete stranger, not even part of his life at all. How peculiar and unpredictable one’s destiny could be, and how sudden its changes come! Of one thing he is certain, however: he has no immediate wish to re-kindle their conversation regarding her daughter’s litany of dazzling merits. According to Deborah’s description she seems even at the tender age of just twenty-one to have already become the perfect saint. And the suspicion that Deborah might be attempting to map out some kind of future for him with regards to Poppy; that they will inevitably meet and come to be friends and even, heaven forbid, much more, is just a bit disconcerting.
He does not want it, this implied destiny. Pursuing the ideal of sharing one’s life with some elusive, perfected being, no longer figures all that high on his list of priorities these days. And although he longs to locate Poppy perhaps almost as much as Deborah herself, once this goal is achieved - and heaven pray it will - that would be the end of the matter. Poppy’s father, according to all reports, seems to be a first-rate brute. And Herman, for his part, has no ambitions, definitely none whatsoever, of ever becoming family.
Chapter 23
It is with some trepidation this afternoon, the one following their late-night arrival in Switzerland, when Herman, leaving Deborah at their hotel and venturing out alone, rings the bell at the apartment block where Herr Rudolf Gross has his home and office, an imposing dark stone building in the leafiest, wealthiest part of the already conspicuously wealthy city of Bern.
There are, he well knows, certain dangers in coming here, especially if this person is associated, no matter how tenuously, with those responsible for the disappearance of Penelope Peters. There is also always an outside chance of Herman’s support for Deborah having been noted in some sense - in particular that wretched photo of them together the other day at the ski resort, and which appeared in several of the English papers. Thus, he has endeavoured to become as different to his usual self in appearance as circumstances allow - ‘disguised’ to a degree by having shaved off his moustache. Having introduced himself in his earlier telegram under the assumed name of a certain David Wilson, he has also availed himself of a very different style of dress for the occasion: less tweedy, and far more formal in a dark three-piece suit and topper - thereby hoping to be perceived not only as a man desperately searching for the meaning of life, but also as one who is extremely rich. And it is, indeed, this combination that appears to be an irresistible draw to the learned doctor - who is willing, he assures his guest after just a few moments of conversation, to assist him to the utmost in any way he can.
‘That is most kind of you, sir,’ Herman asserts after not too great a period has elapsed since his host showing him through to the study, an extensive room on the first floor, with stained glass windows and numerous bookcases, and where amid the profusion of antique statuary mingled with brass and china figures of the Hindu Gods, Chinese dragons and a Buddha, the good doctor pours a glass of afternoon sherry for them both from a fine crystal decanter. ‘In particular, I have been anxious to discover how one might learn more about your philosophy,’ Herman continues, ‘and even perhaps how some of us like-minded individuals in England might be able to support your work and perhaps promote its acceptance among those in positions of influence.’
Again, as anticipated, this comes as a most welcome fillip for his host - who also appears far more tidy and better groomed here in his own home than when they had seen him at the lecture in front of his bohemian and slightly anarchic admirers. The fellow also seems hugely flattered by his guest’s interest in him, his eyes sizing up the quality of Herman’s attire, his diamond tie pin, his intricately enamelled cufflinks and expensive cravat, an accessory of formal dress becoming already distinctly out of fashion and thereby indicating perhaps someone connected to the Englis
h ‘old school’ - perhaps even the aristocracy and governing classes. It is a piece of subterfuge Herman could never hope to sustain in his own country, but here it seems his host is prepared to attribute all variety of noble and exotic virtues to him.
‘These are times of great import, Mr Wilson,’ Gross continues as, noticing with disquiet his visitor’s preoccupation with the bookshelves, he urges him to take a seat instead. ‘We are reaching the age in our planet’s history when the mighty Destroyer is about to cleanse the earth of its pestilence.’
‘Indeed!’ Herman responds with vigour, though followed hard upon by a look of inquiry, inviting the other man to elaborate.
‘Do not trouble yourself, Mr Wilson, I am not speaking of the violent and largely misguided anarchist movements we hear so much of these days,’ he continues in a milder tone, perhaps endeavouring to assuage any unfavourable impression his guest might have just gathered from his library - among which are works not only by the philosopher Nietzsche but also numerous leather-bound periodicals of a more anarchic nature, with names such as ‘The New Dawn,’ ‘Liberty and Rebellion’ or ‘The Black Flag.’
‘Oh, the revolutionaries naturally have their part to play in the process of transformation and change,’ Gross continues. ‘That, we cannot deny. But what I seek to proclaim in my teachings, like many of the philosophers of our times, is the coming of the Übermensch, the new human species with his healthy contempt for weakness and inferiority - the Übermensch with his love of the sublime and all the forward thinking that heralds the new intellectual milieu. These are the great cosmic forces that will shortly govern our planetary consciousness entirely.’
‘So soon?’ Herman responds with fascination while accepting gladly a second glass of sherry. ‘By Jove!’
‘Oh yes. Far sooner than you can imagine, my friend,’ the man adds, getting to his feet and, in the manner of an orator, tucking his thumbs into his lapels. ‘You would, I am sure, as a seeker of the mysteries, Mr Wilson, be familiar with the illustrious oriental trinity of gods - the forces of Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva - the Creative, the Preserver and the Destroyer respectively? These three aspects of the Divine correspond, naturally to the principles of birth, life and death. Awesome especially is the power of the Destroyer, the Lord Shiva. His cleansing spirit and vengeful hand are made visible to us constantly throughout the ages, embodied in the various deities or anti-heroes who have existed since the origin of human life on this planet: the Leviathan of the Old Testament, the Greek Hades, Satan or the horned Goat-man of medieval Europe, and so on - but in whom today it is most potently incarnated in the being of Rascham, the prophet and leader of the Society for the Teachings of Redemptive Mercies - of which I am, I should tell you, an honorary member.’
At which, Herr Gross deftly extracts a calling card from his waistcoat pocket and hands it with unseemly haste across to his guest, a look of unguarded pride upon his by-now somewhat florid features.
‘The Society for the Teachings of Redemptive Mercies - S.T.O.R.M?’ Herman reads aloud, voicing the acronym also emblazoned on the card with special emphasis while pretending to be suitably impressed - though to have just listened to the venerable and ancient Hindu gods being so crudely maligned, does rather make him wince inwardly.
‘Yes - Storm - for there is, indeed, a storm brewing, is there not, Mr Wilson? A storm powerful enough to cleanse this continent of all its racial effluence. Yet everywhere the evolution of humankind is being thwarted by foolish sentimentality, concern for the plight of the weak. Sadly, this unfortunate state of affairs can only be overcome through unrest and insurrection. We must act with expediency, therefore, commensurate with the iniquity of society. The spirit of revolution must be awoken in the masses - and in this context, a single act of violent protest is, I must tell you, worth a hundred thousand pamphlets.’
‘How right - how right you are!’ Herman remarks as if in awe. ‘I must say, listening to you this afternoon, Herr Gross, it is almost as if I can perceive my destiny set out before me. You see, I have so often felt a repugnance for material things, for money and possessions. I mean, what good is wealth, what good is property and the privileges of class in this awful corrupt and filthy world of ours today?’
‘Oh, none. None at all,’ Herr Gross confirms with a suitably dismal tone of voice, and yet his eyes, Herman notices, are narrow and full of cunning and greed - both men playing an ever-more elaborate charade with each other.
‘Tell me, please,’ Herman continues effusively, ‘how may I contact the people you speak of, and place myself at their service. I am particularly intrigued, I must confess, by the individual you just mentioned - what was it you called him, Rascham? I assume this is a real person, a man who walks the earth?’
‘Yes, that is correct: the exalted incarnation and living being of Rascham is among us as we speak,’ the professor replies as, gaining in enthusiasm all the while and yet endeavouring not to appear overly flattered by Herman’s deference, he turns his back, seemingly deep in contemplation, a finger resting on the centre of his forehead as if appealing to some higher intelligence with whom he might be in telepathic communication. Finally, he turns and, responding to the Englishman’s questioning gaze, continues even more vigorously with:
‘Mr Wilson, I have, as you can see, already taken the rare and exceptional step of allowing you fully into our confidence today, but I am prepared to go yet further. I will honour you with precise directions as to where you will find the very guides and masters you are seeking. They have a special centre for studies, discreetly located in a remote part of the Austrian-Hungarian borders. Go to their gates, and offer up your services. You must tell them - and please do not forget to do this - that it was I who sent you. This is most important, for your - er - own safety. It is crucial we guard ourselves from the curiosity of the profane. You do understand?’
‘Oh absolutely, yes. And I can only thank you from the bottom of my heart for your generosity,’ the obsequious Englishman replies, also getting to his feet as if to receive such a benefaction more appropriately as Gross hurries to his bureau and, true to his word, begins scribbling what appears to be some kind of note of introduction, across the base of a small map.
‘Remember, Mr Wilson, there is only a short time left to us,’ he says, handing over the document with a dramatic, almost military thrusting of the hand in Herman’s direction. ‘The galactic intelligences are impatient for change - and since this change is inevitable anyway, we need men of grit and valour to help fulfil the destiny of our planet. The old order must be swept aside before the new can begin. If you are sincere, your rewards will be immeasurable, I promise you - in this life and the next.’
‘I am indebted to you, sir,’ the Englishman responds fulsomely and a moment later, after bidding his host farewell with a hearty handshake, Herman escapes the dark, dingy building into the light and welcome sobriety of the peaceful streets and parks of stately Bern once again.
What a relief! The interview simply could not have gone better - the very organisation Deborah had been told of so long ago by the German police having been located at last. And so, after making absolutely certain he has not been followed, Herman sets off back to the hotel and to Deborah to convey the glad tidings.
Rather than wait on tenterhooks all afternoon for Herman’s return, Deborah, to distract herself and pass the time more productively, has elected to journey by carriage up into the hills to visit a nearby health spa where she has been free for a few precious hours to re-focus her attention on her much neglected appearance - including a visit to a hot steam room and an invigorating massage, followed, as the early twilight of a winter’s afternoon closes in, by a trip to the hairdressers in the city and to the clothes shops, milliners and cafés close by, with all their bright and seductively illuminated windows - all courtesy of her newly resurrected chequebook and a good supply of local currency in her purse at last. How good to have the opportunity to be simply normal again - if only for a few hours - reacquaint
ing herself with a taste of decadence and so many of those blissful pleasures that always seem so much more acceptable here on the continent in places like this, away from all the stuffy decorum the English impose upon themselves.
That she has been able to give herself permission to indulge in these luxuries today is thanks in no small part, she suspects, to Herman. His calm, steadying vision and manly courage has filled her with a renewed sense of optimism; so that for one strange and perplexing moment she realises that, despite everything, she feels quite happy.
Just as she is returning to the hotel, however, she has the distinct and most uncomfortable sensation of being followed. For one terrible moment she recalls the spectre of that horrid man, Hanno, and upon which all her anxieties return. But then, a second later she is intercepted by someone entirely different, overtaken by none other than the very same ghastly journalist, Bob Small, the little man in the trilby hat with his narrow, shifty eyes who has been trailing her just about everywhere the past several weeks, only to write up the most shameless lies about her in the papers. Loathsome creature.
‘Just a quick word, Debs - any chance?’ he inquires, almost blocking her path and, it being very chilly, raising his hat only briefly in salutation to reveal his close-cropped ginger hair.
‘A word? Oh, there is definitely a word, for you,’ Deborah responds instantly as she brushes by, not deigning to cast her eyes over the man any further than that first startled look. ‘There is a word, but I don’t think it would be printable - not even in the scurrilous rag of a newspaper you work for,’ she adds, noticing with satisfaction as she marches away how the wide brim of her hat, which slants down on one side, has chafed his face and made him flinch.
THE HOURS BEFORE: A Story of Mystery and Suspense from the Belle Époque Page 22
