Madame Sousatzka

by Bernice Rubens

  ‘I think we can begin now, but before we begin, I think we must decide who will ask the questions.’

  There was some discussion. Uncle declared Sousatzka to be an interested party, and therefore partial, at which Sousatzka explained to Uncle that as Marcus’s week-end landlady, she also was not completely disinterested. Cordle, too, would be personally affected by the tumbler’s decision, and so it was left to Jenny, who was considered the least partial of them all. Jenny took her seat at the table. Madame Sousatzka sat opposite her, with Mr Cordle and Uncle on the other sides.

  They sat in silence for a moment, then at a sign from Jenny, they lifted the index finger of their right hands, and dipped them together into the bowl of chalk. Then they placed them lightly on the tumbler.

  ‘Is there a spirit in this house?’ Jenny asked. There was no answer.

  ‘Do you know why we are here?’ Jenny tried again in a low voice.

  Uncle sneezed and the glass trembled. ‘It knows,’ said Cordle.

  ‘Whose problem are we concerned with?’

  They waited and concentrated. Even Uncle had come back from Paris for the occasion. Then slowly the glass began to move. It knew where it was going but it took its time. It moved slowly to Madame Sousatzka’s corner and stopped with assurance at the letter M. But not for long. Barely touching the letter, it moved away to the other end of the table where Jenny was sitting, and paused at the letter A.

  ‘It’s Manders,’ said Uncle.

  ‘Could be Marcus,’ said Jenny solemnly.

  They all looked at the glass, which seemed to have retired. Jenny repeated the question, and the glass obediently set off again. It passed the letter N and came to rest at R, but only for a moment, after which it skidded to the C, U and S in quick succession.

  ‘Marcus,’ Madame Sousatzka breathed, as if it hadn’t been quite clear, and whether from its own volition or from external pressure, the glass returned to the middle of the table.

  ‘What is Marcus?’ asked Jenny. It was a question posed only as a formality. Jenny didn’t for one moment doubt the authenticity of her tumbler. It had served her well for many years. It had always been right, and she guarded it and respected it as a child does a long-service conker.

  The glass began to move again, this time unmistakably and assuredly to the letter P. ‘That’s enough,’ said Jenny. She brought the glass back into the centre. It had proved itself to be genuine.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Uncle, who had to sneeze again.

  ‘You’re not concentrating,’ Jenny accused her.

  ‘That’s not true,’ Uncle said. ‘It’s this French chalk.’ She had been thinking of nothing else but Marcus and out of pique she took herself once more off to Paris.

  Jenny braced herself. The next questions were decisive, and she wanted to give the tumbler time to compose itself. ‘We’re not all ready,’ she said. ‘One of us is not here. Let us come together. Let us join in concentration for the best results.’ She waited again. ‘Pour your minds into your finger-tips. Uncle, come back,’ Jenny whispered. Uncle was in the process of changing trains, but she shook herself out of her reverie and concentrated on the tip of her finger.

  ‘What should Marcus do?’ Jenny asked, quietly and deliberately. At that moment the ‘phone rang. Madame Sousatzka, who was nearest, picked it up with her free hand, shouted ‘Out’, into the receiver and promptly put it down again. But the peace had been disturbed. They all rose and returned to their chairs by the gas-fire, while Jenny put on the kettle. No-one said a word.

  It was a bad omen, and Madame Sousatzka began to feel that whatever the glass advised would be unreliable. But there was the risk of offending it. They had to go through with the session.

  Jenny collected their used glasses and looked at the tea-leaves, each in turn. Three of them were of little interest to her, and she rinsed them under the tap. But Madame Sousatzka’s she put aside for further scrutiny, and she reached for a clean glass from the shelf. She poured out fresh glasses of mint tea and the ceremony started again. This time it was difficult to relax at all, and Jenny sensed their restlessness. ‘Drink up quickly,’ she said, ‘we mustn’t keep the tumbler waiting.’

  They drank in silence. Jenny was first to finish, and while waiting for the others she went over to the sink to pick up Sousatzka’s old glass. What she read in the tea-leaves was exactly the same as she had read in Marcus’s cup in the afternoon, except that in this vision Marcus was visible. He was crouching underneath some furniture, surrounded by hundreds of people.

  She quickly washed the glass and all trace of the misfortune she felt was bound to follow. ‘Are we ready now?’ she asked, collecting the glasses.

  Uncle was sitting staring into the gas-fire. Somehow with this glass of tea she hadn’t been able to see Paris. Instead she was on the verge of thinking of Madrid two years later. The day they’d sent a message from the Embassy where he worked to say that Paul had collapsed. She tried not to let her thoughts carry her to the vision of his utterly dead body on the Chippendale couch of the Embassy drawing-room. She was grateful when Jenny called them back to the table.

  Madame Sousatzka took her seat first and the others followed. Jenny went once more through the preliminaries and the answers were the same. The decisive question could not be delayed any longer.

  ‘What?’ said Jenny deliberately. ‘What should Marcus do?’ All eyes were on the glass. Slowly it started to move, at first in a small circle, and gradually widening in diameter until it was skidding almost uncontrollably within a few inches of the rim of the table. Their fingers went with it, and the top of the glass looked like a Catherine Wheel, with Jenny’s red-painted nail briefly smudging Cordle’s, which lay next to hers.

  Sousatzka didn’t want it to stop; she hoped that its speed would gather and that it would fall from the table and smash to pieces. She hated it and willed its destruction. Cordle was concentrating as never before, and even Uncle grew aware of the vital decision the glass was about to make. Then gradually it slowed down, moving further towards the centre. Then suddenly it stopped revolving and, as if magnetized, it moved towards the letter C, where it stopped sadly as if it couldn’t help it. It wanted to get it over with, and the next letters of the word ‘concert’ were visited reluctantly and quickly by Jenny’s tumbler. When it had spat it out, like a dirty word, Jenny brought the glass back to the centre and they all took their fingers away.

  All except Madame Sousatzka. ‘Cordle,’ she said, piercing him in the eye, ‘Cordle, you pushed.’

  It was an unforgivable accusation. It cast suspicion not only on this session, but on all the others in which Cordle had participated.

  ‘That’s a lie,’ he spluttered, ‘a downright lie.’ No one would ever have believed that Cordle could lose his temper. None of them had seen him like this before. He looked down at his hands and rubbed them gently as if they’d been hurt, then quietly he added, ‘Don’t I need him back, too?’ He got up and went over to the gas-fire.

  Uncle and Jenny looked at Madame Sousatzka. She had begun to cry. ‘I’m sorry, Cordle,’ she wept. ‘It wasn’t true. I don’t want to believe the glass. That is all. We need him. Both of us. Tomorrow will I telephone Manders.’

  Each of them wanted to console her, even Mr Cordle who had understood her outburst and had already forgiven her. But what could they say? Mr Manders was her executioner and she was going to make an appointment with him in the morning.

  ‘I’ll make some tea before you go,’ Jenny said quickly to break the tension. She ran the tap quietly and got the cups ready with the minimum of noise. Then she put on the kettle and the steady sound of the gas relieved the silence in the room. Suddenly Jenny started to hum. She was humming a well-known folk-song, putting in a word or two here and there. Uncle began to tap her fingers to the rhythm and Cordle shifted forward in his seat. Then at the third verse he joined in shyly, craning his neck towards Jenny, singing slightly off-pitch as in a mating-call. Only Madame Sousatzka sat silent, her
hands trembling on her knees.

  Jenny poured the tea using a strainer, which was not her custom, but she didn’t want to give them a reason to ask her to read their cups tonight. She was tired anyway, and tomorrow she’d have to work.

  Madame Sousatzka blew on her tea noisily, then lifting her cup forward and away from her, she said in a broken voice, ‘Let’s drink to our Marcus and his future.’

  ‘Just listen to that,’ Jenny said, laughing with relief. ‘That’s a real toast. But we can’t drink such an important toast with tea. Wait a minute,’ and she ran to her cupboard and brought out a bottle of champagne. She shut the cupboard door, then after some hesitation she reopened it, and brought out a second bottle.

  ‘This is really worth a celebration,’ she said, forgetting her fatigue, concerned only with making the most of the tumbler’s decision. ‘Cordle, this is your job, I think.’

  She gave him the bottle and Cordle tore off the silver foil. He pressed his thumbs under the wire and aimed the neck of the bottle at the door. He shut his eyes tightly as if, had he had his fingers free, he would have stuffed them in his ears.

  For a moment, Uncle was back in Paris, but Madame Sousatzka sat sadly, her cup of tea still raised. ‘To Marcus,’ she whispered, and she took a sip and put her cup on the floor.

  Cordle was treating the cork as if it was a dislocated bone. He coaxed it this way and that, reluctant to dismiss it. ‘Fire!’ Jenny shouted. Cordle giggled. ‘You’re the boss,’ he said, and the cork went flying across the room with a loud pop.

  The champagne bubbled out of the bottle. Jenny had forgotten clean glasses, and it was poured hastily into the dregs of mint tea.

  ‘To Marcus and his future,’ Cordle squeaked, already drunk with the fumes.

  ‘To Marcus,’ they all said, raising their glasses. ‘And to our dear Sousatzka,’ Uncle added, clinking her glass to hers. ‘To Sousatzka, who is responsible.’

  ‘No,’ said Jenny. ‘We must have a fresh glass for Sousatzka. The next one. This one is for Marcus.’

  Cordle emptied his glass quickly, eager to give some justification to his intoxicated mood. Uncle sipped hers gently, flitting from one Embassy couch to another. Jenny tackled hers professionally, savouring the mint bouquet. ‘Come on, Sousatzka,’ she said, ‘drink up. We’ve got another bottle to get through.’

  Sousatzka was sipping gingerly, but at Jenny’s encouragement she finished it in one gulp. She tottered a little, slipping on the fur hem of her dress. There was a loud ripping sound, and then silence. Suddenly Madame Sousatzka laughed, and picking up her skirt she tore off the whole hem of fur and placed it delicately round Uncle’s neck. It was Uncle’s ticket to Paris again. She would be busy for the rest of the evening.

  ‘I never like this dress, anyway,’ said Sousatzka, ‘I buy a new one for the concert. Another drink for the concert,’ she added, raising her glass. There was a desperation in her sudden gaiety. She was determined not to spoil the fun. But so was everybody else in the room, each trying to feed the atmosphere of jollity that had been forced on them.

  Jenny refilled the glasses. Uncle had put her feet on Jenny’s chair. ‘Come and sit here,’ Cordle said, daringly touching his knee. Jenny obliged as part of the job.

  Sousatzka giggled. ‘And me?’ she pouted.

  ‘Have the other one,’ said Cordle generously, tapping his free knee. He couldn’t have known what he was letting himself in for. Madame Sousatzka, tipsy as she was, put her whole weight on to Cordle’s knee-cap. He let out an hysterical, painful laugh, tipped them both over and joined them rolling on the floor.

  Uncle watched them disdainfully. They had temporarily disturbed her dream. She flicked her ash on to Cordle’s trousers and lurched across to the table to refill her glass. The others on the floor indicated that she should fill theirs too, and Uncle came down on the floor to join them.

  Cordle was much in demand because of his minority status. Uncle put her arms around his neck, touching Sousatzka’s fingers which were already there. Jenny was lying flat on her back, her feet resting on Cordle’s knees. She was singing a song, a song she always used to sing on outside work, to while away the hours of back and fore pacing during the slack times. She would allocate herself a certain number of verses, plus the repeated chorus, before she would give up and go home. But invariably she went on singing until the end, because it was a song that told a story, and it was bad luck to leave it untold. The others were listening to her, humming the chorus, trying to learn the words. But it was the song of Jenny’s Union, unknown to those outside the trade.

  ‘Let’s dance,’ said Cordle weakly, when the song was finished. He wanted himself fully exploited. Gently he removed Jenny’s feet and disentangled himself from Sousatzka’s and Uncle’s embrace. He opened the other bottle of champagne and refilled the glasses. ‘To the future,’ he said, not being able to think of a vaguer toast. Half of him wanted to stagger out of the room and go downstairs and shade Paradise into his chart in bright purple. The other half willed him to stay. He felt that some indefinable opportunity waited for him in this room. Without much difficulty he opted for the latter half. ‘May I,’ he stumbled over to Sousatzka, ‘have this waltz?’

  He started to sing in questionable three-four time. Madame Sousatzka joined him, putting him more securely into the waltz beat. He held her at arm’s length, as if a crinoline separated them. ‘Do you come here often?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she giggled, ‘every week I come.’

  With her reply, Jenny’s room, which had for Cordle become a State ballroom, was reduced to the local Palais de Danse. He adapted himself quickly. ‘What d’you do for a living, love?’

  ‘I am a teacher,’ she said proudly. ‘I am the teacher. The teacher of that great pianist who now is playing all over Europe. I am his teacher.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Cordle, trying to place the new location suggested by her answer. But seeing the two drunk wallflowers wilting against the cupboard he said, ‘Let’s have a Paul Jones.’ He grabbed them and joined their hands with Sousatzka’s and started them off in a circle. He himself pirouetted in the centre, humming like a top. Although he was drunk, he was acutely aware of his dilemma, that if he ever stopped whirling, two of the ladies would be offended. And so he spiralled to the floor and lay there prostrate and exhausted. He saw three disappointed faces staring down at him, like the swollen head of a giant sunflower. He couldn’t distinguish one from the other, and Uncle’s fur collar seemed to encircle them all. Suddenly a third of the face disappeared and he was conscious of a great weight on his body. He felt cold metal on his neck, and touching it, he knew it was Sousatzka’s watch. He rolled her over to his side, and they lay there giggling.

  ‘I’m drunk,’ said Madame Sousatzka, anxious to give some justification for her amorous mood. Cordle said nothing. There was only need for one of them to take the responsibility.

  He put his arm round her and drummed his fingers on the fat that covered her spine. Jenny had gone over to her bed. She had refilled her glass and lay face downwards, cradling it on her pillow. Uncle just about made the table, and she sat down heavily in front of the tumbler. There was a sudden heavy silence in the room, broken only by an occasional sigh from Madame Sousatzka on the floor.

  ‘It reminds me,’ Uncle said dreamily, ‘of a party we had in the Austrian Embassy in 1905. I wore my black organdie. Everybody drank so much, all the people who next morning would be our enemies. Only Paul was sober. And then the awful thing happened. I was standing there, underneath some painting or other,’ she moved the letter L for Louise to the side of the table. ‘Paul was there’ – she did likewise with the letter P – ‘and that dreadful English General was in the middle.’ She took the tumbler and put it between the two letters. ‘Drunk as a lord he was, tottering on his little feet.’ She swivelled the glass from side to side. ‘ “He’s not good enough for you, my dear,” he said. “Won’t touch a drop because he can’t hold it.” He touched Paul’s lapel. “A man who ca
n’t take liquor,” he spat out at him, “he’s not a man. You’re not worthy of her,” he shouted, putting his arm around my shoulder. Paul was very calm, but I could see that he was angry.’ Uncle was whispering now, and both Sousatzka and Cordle were sitting on the floor listening to her. Jenny leaned over the bed-rail. ‘I knew he was angry because of the vein that stuck out on his forehead. “You’re drunk,” Paul said to him. “Drunk, am I? I’ll show you how drunk I am,” and with both his arms he lifted Paul from the ground.’ At this point, Uncle turned the tumbler on its side and with it she scooped up the letter P. The couple on the floor stood up for a better view, and Jenny crossed over to the table. Uncle was in a trance. Her whispering was unbearable. ‘So I put my arms around Paul and I screamed trying to drag him away. All the others at the party crowded round us.’ With one swoop of her hand she scooped the remaining letters into an untidy pile in the centre of the table. ‘At last Paul got himself free,’ Uncle gently took the letter out of the glass, ‘but I could see he was defeated.’ She crumpled the card in her hand. ‘I couldn’t bear that, not that look on his face. I took off my shoe – it had a pointed heel – and I hit that General on his face. I hit him and I hit him and I hit him.’ With the card in her hand, she pushed the glass towards the edge of the table. She was shouting now hysterically. ‘I hit him, till he fell on his back.’ She swept her hand over the table and the glass crashed into a thousand tiny pieces on the floor. With her other hand, she swept the rest of the cards after it, and clutching the crumpled letter P in her hand, she beat her forehead in an agony of remorse and remembrance.

  In a way, Uncle’s breakdown was a relief to them all. They could now drop the act they were each playing and become themselves again. The crash of the glass had sobered them. Jenny began to cry with a kind of rage at the loss of her glass, and anger at not being able to scold Uncle. She tried vainly to piece the glass together, but Cordle told her to let it be.