A Severed Wasp

by L'Engle, Madeleine;

  2

  At dinner Katherine was seated to the right of the bishop. At the other end of the table, Yolande ladled jellied madrilene from a silver tureen which sparkled with bright drops of condensation, handed the filled cups to Fatima, and watched her carefully as she served them. It took a certain amount of faith, Katherine thought, to permit the clumsy child to handle the delicate china.

  Bishop Undercroft turned to Katherine. “It’s generous of you to give us your time this evening. I know you must be tired.”

  “But now she needs time to relax,” Felix said, “and to enjoy a good meal.”

  “I have to be careful,” the younger bishop said, “or I could easily put on weight. Yolande has never had to worry; her tremendous energy burns up calories.”

  “Do you have to watch your weight, Katya?” Felix asked. “You don’t seem to me to have changed any in all these years.”

  “I haven’t much, though I do have to watch it,” she admitted. “I’ve lost the slender waistline I was once so proud of. We tend to become pear-shaped as we grow older.”

  “Nonsense.” Bishop Undercroft took a last swallow of soup. “You still have a splendid figure. Do you remember the old opera singers, male and female, who were mountains of flesh? I’ll never forget my disappointment when, as a small child, I was taken to see Siegfried. Fafner was a puny and obviously papier-mâché dragon, but I still held my breath waiting for Brünnhilde to rise up out of the pyre at the end. And then, instead of a beautiful maiden emerging from the flames, there rose up a great fat cow. It finished opera for me for years.”

  Felix accepted a second bowl of madrilene. “Like Yolande, I’ve never had to worry. Although I don’t think I could cope with the vast quantity of food those singers must have tucked away.”

  “In a sense I can understand it,” Katherine said, refusing more soup, “at least the after-theatre suppers. One is always hungry after a performance, and it is a time to unwind, let go stress and strain. It’s the most delightful and unhurried time of day when one is on tour.”

  Mrs. Gomez, both tall and muscular, carried in a silver platter which she set down in front of the bishop, and then gazed with small, olive-black eyes at the assembled company with a look of smug satisfaction. At close quarters Katherine saw that Fatima and her mother resembled each other. As far as beauty was concerned, Fatima did not have much to look forward to, though Mrs. Gomez’s tight white uniform and short-cropped grizzled hair did nothing to soften her features.

  Bishop Undercroft looked across the table at his wife, who was talking with Suzy Davidson. “I am often awed by the artistic temperament. It sometimes seems to me to be a battleground, a dark angel of destruction and a bright angel of creativity wrestling, and when the bright angel dominates, out comes a great work of art, a Michelangelo David or a Beethoven symphony.”

  “It’s an interesting image,” Katherine said, “but both my husband and my father produced their best work when their dark angel, as it were, was dominant. That is, when their moods were most black, the purest melody seemed to be released.”

  “And you?” the young bishop asked.

  “I’m an interpreter. I, too, have my dark angels, but I can always balance them by someone else’s joy, even though that joy, like some of Mozart’s happiest work, may have been born out of darkness.”

  “You are so right,” Bishop Undercroft admitted, “and perhaps my image was an oversimplification.” Again he looked across the table at his wife, and it seemed to Katherine that he was seeing her dark angel in her dark Spanish eyes.

  Yolande was saying to Suzy, “Fatima’s voice has really come into its own this year. It’s almost as amazing that she should be gifted with a beautiful voice as that her mother should be a gourmet cook.”

  “Another piece of evidence,” the dean said, “that God is no respecter of persons.” He stopped, as Fatima came in, passing around a tray of vegetables.

  Katherine helped herself from the child’s slightly wobbly tray. “You have a magnificent collection of paintings,” she said to the young bishop, “all work by artists I especially admire.”

  “Collecting art is my weakness.” He glanced at a Chinese scroll on the wall behind Yolande’s head. “But no—the paintings are more than that for me; they are a form of prayer. When I am out of proportion—which, believe me, is a frequent state of mind for an overworked bishop—the pictures will usually restore me, particularly the O’Keeffe, and, perhaps even more deeply, the Hunter.”

  “Katherine has a Hunter,” Felix said, “a superb one.”

  “Do you collect, too?” Bishop Undercroft asked her.

  She shook her head. “My stepmother was one of the first to discover Philippa Hunter, and the picture I have is an early one, of me and my baby, where she was just discovering her amazing perception of shadow and brilliance.”

  “Shadow and brilliance,” the young bishop repeated. “To continue my analogy, then, I wonder how much control we have over the battle of our angels? Van Gogh, for instance. Do you know, I still worry about Van Gogh because he never had the satisfaction, during his lifetime, of knowing that his work would mean what it does now, to countless people. What a terrible deprivation.”

  “And most artists,” Felix added, “never know, consciously at any rate, whether it’s the dark angel or the bright angel in ascendance.”

  Both bishops were thinking, Katherine was certain, not of Van Gogh or Michelangelo or Mozart, but of Yolande. “Perhaps it’s really one angel?” she suggested. “I’d think it’s most likely the same angel in different guises. At least, that’s how it seemed to be with me, and with the artists I’ve been surrounded with all my life. My stepmother, Manya Sergeievna, had a most volatile temper. If anything went wrong backstage she would pour out her anger on the nearest stagehand, like an erupting volcano, and the next moment she would sweep on stage, radiating serenity, and holding the audience in the palm of her hand.”

  Felix turned his gaze from Yolande to Fatima going into the kitchen, nearly dropping her tray as she pushed through the swinging door. “Thus far,” he mused, “I don’t see in Fatima any signs of the artistic temperament, but perhaps it’s hidden away somewhere, if Yolande is right about her voice.” He sounded definitely dubious.

  After dessert, a light-as-air soufflé, they returned to the living room for coffee. Yolande perched on the sofa beside Katherine.

  “Dr. Oppenheimer has converted Allie and me to herb tea. So much better than all that caffeine. Dave likes his coffee, so I have it for him. I used to drink enormous quantities of coffee when I was singing. But of course one doesn’t need chemical sources for adrenaline. Just let me get near a stage door and my adrenaline starts to pump. Was it that way for you?”

  “Very much so.”

  “We’re so pleased that you’re doing the benefit. That will be a real boost to the building fund. Have you been through the Stone Yard?”

  “Yes. Felix gave me a quick tour this afternoon.”

  “Oh, good. I know Allie’s looking forward to giving you the grand tour himself. As an artist, you’ll really appreciate it, you know. Did Felix tell you that one of the early apprentices, back when Dean Morton started it all, you know, is now a well-known sculptor? That bust of Allie in the front hall is hers. Did you notice it when you came in?”

  “No. Sorry. But your pictures—they’re incredible—”

  Yolande rose, holding out her hand. “Do come see the bust. It’s quite special.”

  Katherine let the younger woman help her up. The bust was, in fact, very fine. It was a strong face, done of the bishop at about the same age as Lukas had been when she first knew him. The mouth was sensitive and compassionate, and the eyes showed a quick intelligence, and a humor she had not yet seen in the bishop. “Yes, it is a splendid piece of work. I can understand how much it means to you.”

  “And here”—Mrs. Undercroft opened a door to the left of the entrance—“is our chapel. Sometimes Allie celebrates the—you know—the
Holy Mysteries for me here.”

  Katherine looked into a small white chapel, with a simple altar, candles, a small crucifix. There was a prie-dieu, and chairs for half a dozen people. The simplicity of the room should have given a sense of quiet, but it did not, and she was not sure why. There was no peace in Yolande Undercroft as she looked fixedly toward the crucifix; instead, Katherine felt distress from the younger woman, feelings still acutely unresolved.

  Mrs. Undercroft broke the silence. “I often come here to pray, alone, you know. I was here when I knew that Merv was going to die. Sometimes I can see past the veil, and it is a gift which brings more pain than joy. Merv’s death has really shaken Allie. And it is a terrible loss to me, you know. I could talk to Merv. Like me, he had a terrible background, a background alien to all that those born and brought up in this country can ever understand. He understood me, all my anxieties and uncertainties. And guilt—oh, I was so close, you know, so close to being able to unburden myself to him. I’m not sure how long I can go on carrying it alone—I’m not strong enough—why couldn’t Chan have died instead? He’s half dead with emphysema anyhow—not that I wish him, you know, ill, but Merv—Jesus, what a loss.”

  “I’m sorry,” Katherine murmured lamely.

  Yolande seemed wound up like a steel spring. “And Allie—he works so hard. When I complain about my awful childhood I have to remember that his wasn’t easy, either—though he always had enough to eat. But his mother was frequently ill, or thought she was, and his father traveled a lot. And then they died and he had that hellish boarding-school experience. English schoolboys are unmerciful bullies. The privileged are cruel. And he spent the holidays with some distant relative of his mother’s who, ultimately, left him her money and her name. Undercroft. It’s a good name for a bishop.”

  “It isn’t his real name?”

  “It’s real enough legally. She didn’t have any children, and the name would have died out with her. Poor Allie, there’s always a line of stress between his eyes. I, too, know what it’s like to, you know, work under stress. Strange—the pressures put on a bishop and those put on an artist are not dissimilar.”

  “I’m sorry,” Katherine said. “I’ve spent so much of my life abroad that I’ve never heard you sing.”

  Yolande shrugged slightly. “I didn’t have much of a voice, but I did have a presence. Singing—God gave me the ability to put over a song. But there are other things, oh, things more difficult. Knowing things which must be done. And I see things I would rather not see. I saw Merv—and the old woman—and the gun. I told Allie, because I didn’t want it to be too much of a shock for him. I thought it would be better if I—you know—warned him …”

  Katherine continued to regard the younger woman. There was no harshness in her face now, and Katherine felt a tremendous pity for her.

  Yolande turned her gaze from the crucifix. Her voice was tired, as though something in her, some spring, had wound down. “We’d better get back to the others. They’ll be wondering. I don’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t come in here to the chapel. Jesus had heavy burdens, too. He knew things that other people didn’t know. That helps. And he was kind to women who had been overlavish in love. That was, you know, unusual. Still is.” She made a deep genuflection, crossed herself dramatically, and led Katherine back to the living room.

  She sat on a low sofa and indicated that Katherine was to sit with her. “Allie rescued me. I was in bondage to my work, to my public. It is one thing to be given a gift, another to be a slave. Do you miss all the travel?”

  Katherine replied, “Not the airports. Certainly not, in this country, O’Hare or Atlanta.”

  Mrs. Undercroft gave a small screech of appreciation. “God, I hated them! Every year travel gets more complicated and uncomfortable. Added to that, my manager, my producers—they all thought of me as theirs, their, you know, chattel. They used me, my talent, to serve their own greeds and their own lusts. I never even knew that love existed until Allie. Your Justin loved you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I envy you. A long, faithful marriage. I hope that Allie and I will have that, though we began later than most.”

  “War interrupted us,” Katherine said. “So, though I was very young when we actually married, we were apart for the entire war.”

  “The Second World War? Yes. That seems so long ago. It must seem strange to you that it didn’t touch my life at all. But I was born in—South America, far away from all your wars. Then, when I was hardly more than a child it was discovered that I had a gift with music and my own—you know—presence. I’m not sure exactly what happens, but when I get in front of an audience, it is as though lightning enters my body, and the electricity is visible—” She paused to light a cigarette and Katherine’s sensitive nostrils quivered. Surely if Yolande had a weak chest she should not smoke. “You say you never heard me sing. I’ve never heard you play. But from what Allie says—does that happen with you?”

  “Something like that, when it’s at its best.”

  “That’s why I always had an audience when I did TV. But even then, you know, when millions were screaming to hear me when I was at Madison Square Garden, I was still not myself. I was still someone being used for other people’s purposes. I’m often asked if I miss the excitement and adulation. Sure—being adored is a kind of addiction, I’m the first to admit it. But what I have with Allie is far more than all the worship the crowds gave me. Allie loves me. I had never been loved before. I didn’t even know I was someone who could be loved until Allie gave me myself. Do you mind my telling you all this—I know I’ve monopolized you tonight, and I’ve hardly let you get a word in edgewise—but I had a feeling that you knew—you know—only what you might have heard about me from other people. And somehow I wanted to tell you myself. I’m sorry—I hope you don’t mind—”

  “Of course not. I appreciate it.”

  “You’ve been a wonderful listener. And Allie and I are grateful to you for being here to help take care of Felix.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not much help.”

  “Oh, yes, he can talk to you. You’re a link with the past, you know, someone who has the same memories. Old Felix has a lot to come to terms with in his not-so-saintly past. He has not always been a good influence on Allie. You help keep him occupied, and I thank you for that.”

  “I’m glad to be of some small help.” Katherine did not like the way the bishop’s wife talked about Felix. “He’s most appreciative of all your husband does for him.”

  “He does do a great deal,” Yolande agreed. “Far more than is expected or warranted. But then, Allie is willing to take on burdens other people would not support. Allie gets so tired, and then I’m the one who has to try to put him back, you know, together again. Forgive me, hon, for bending your ear this way. And now I’d better pay attention to the rest of the guests.”

  3

  The dean came over to Katherine, carrying a steaming cup of coffee, and asked her about the Bösendorfer, and then suggested that he and Suzy drive her home. “It’s a beautiful evening, and Suzy and I enjoy a chance to drive through the park. It will be a respite for me, as I’ll be holding vigil for Merv most of the night. And then the funeral is tomorrow.”

  The bishop rose then and clapped his hands for attention. “Would you like to have Yolande sing before you leave?”

  There were polite murmurs of assent.

  Yolande uncoiled herself from the sofa and stood at the top of the steps that led down from the large hall to the living room. The bishop went to a hi-fi set and put on a record. Music poured out at them—assailed them—from several loudspeakers, so that they were encased in blaring sound. Drums. Marimbas. Amplified guitars. South American music with pulsing rhythms.

  At the top of the steps Yolande began to sway to the beat. Then she started to sing. Her voice was hoarse, but it still had power. She started singing beneath the music, the soft Spanish words nevertheless completely audible. Then, as she slowly increased t
he volume, she increased her body movements. The drums began to beat wildly, and Yolande’s voice rose above the beat. She still had an extraordinary range, from deep contralto to the highest coloratura, and if it was more than slightly strained it was still an amazing instrument. Now she was singing about death, a poignant mourning song. And yet, as Mimi had said, there was something comforting about it. Through the grief came a promise of comfort.

  The dean and his wife were sitting side by side, staring down. Felix was standing, gazing into the fireplace. Bishop Undercroft, looking at his wife, was adjusting the volume of the record. In the hall behind Yolande, Fatima hovered, in rapt adoration. Behind the child stood Mrs. Gomez and the maid.

  Yolande’s voice rose in a controlled scream. She slumped, and turned the slump into a deep bow. The bishop raised the needle from the record and everybody applauded. Mrs. Gomez clapped her hands together stolidly. Then she nodded at Fatima and the maid and led them back to the kitchen.

  Yolande bowed again and came down the steps to the living room. The bishop took her hands. “Thank you, my dear. Thank you for singing that song for Merv.” He looked at Katherine, expectantly.

  She sat straight in the chair. “I can understand why Mrs. Undercroft had such a following.”