The Drowning People

by Richard Mason

  Mr. Tomin, who scanned the papers too and whose self-satisfaction and excitement increased with each passing day, talked frequently to us of the preparations. “We have had an expert from Vienna to hang the paintings,” he told us, “and the lighting at the auction house has been especially redesigned. I also have great hopes for the furniture now. With all this excitement it may develop an historical value which outweighs its intrinsic one.”

  Mr. Kierczinsky, whom we occasionally saw too, also grew noticeably more dapper as press interest in the sale increased; and one morning he showed us a newspaper photograph of him standing on the steps of his law firm’s office. “I said that I could not comment … of course. But it is a good likeness, is it not? Do you think you can see the name of the firm clearly? I am not sure you can see it clearly.”

  We told him you could see it clearly.

  “Ah that is good. Very good.” And he went off chuckling to himself to draw up the last of the requisite papers. Madame Mocsáry’s will had been highly specific in the assignation of trinkets; but, written years before her fame and never updated, it had largely ignored the possibility of her having any money to bequeath after her death. She had left her paintings to her sister Laure, little suspecting the international attention which she and they would later receive. And as Laure in the event had predeceased her sister by three years, the paintings had gone to Eric’s mother. Though this seemed quite simple to us, the probable success of the sale seemed to cause a variety of “urgent … paperwork matters” to spring up which required Mr. Kierczinsky’s detailed and expensive attention.

  The showrooms of First Auctioneers, Ltd., which occupied a good half block of Wenceslas Square, were done over especially for the sale just as Mr. Tomin had promised. Teams of painters and polishers brought to their walls a pristine shine unknown in Czech auction houses and hired crates of Bohemian crystal—vodka and champagne glasses mostly—were delivered daily. The details of the sale and the run-up to it were complicated and extravagant. There was to be a reception for important potential buyers on the night before the Mocsáry effects went under the gavel, and the sale itself was to take place a week after the paintings went on show for the first time.

  That week was perhaps the only time that the collection was ever seen in its entirety by the public. And each day, for the price of the catalog, a long line of people—Czech and foreign alike—trooped over the pale wooden floors of the viewing rooms, pointing, admiring, discussing. Each day, too, Mr. Tomin came to show us another illustrious name in the auction house’s visitors’ book.

  In the busy days that succeeded the arrival of Camilla Boardman’s letter I had no time to reply to it and I was unwilling to write to Ella. I waited instead to hear from her, for I was mindful of my promise not to write until she had told me that her freedom was secured; and having kept my word for so long I had no intention of breaking it now. Each day I scanned my letter box and each day I was disappointed as no envelope from her arrived, something which might have worried me had I been less certain of her. As it was, I felt secure enough to wait and I managed to avoid the temptation to write myself. If Ella did not think the time yet ripe for contact then I would trust to her judgment.

  It was on the Wednesday of “Showing Week,” as Mr. Tomin liked to call it, that I discovered that the Harcourts were in Prague; and I discovered it completely by chance. My attention was being drawn to the fact that Princess Amelia von Thurn und Taxis had come the previous afternoon when, two lines below her flowery signature, I saw another entry in the book and read “Lord and Lady Alexander Harcourt, Grand Hotel Europa,” written in confident ballpoint in a hand I did not recognize. Ignoring Mr. Tomin’s excited description of the princess’s kind words to him I asked him if he remembered anything about an English milord and his wife.

  He paused, thinking slowly, but his eyes were trained to miss nothing. “Yes. Good-looking. Lady Harcourt spoke with the accent of Boston,” he said as my blood began to race. “They were quiet, though; they seemed worried. They talked so that I could not hear them.”

  I could barely contain my excitement as it occurred to me that Ella, even now, might be in the city; that Ella, even now, might be asking for my whereabouts at the Conservatory or at Sokolska 21. After weeks without her I saw suddenly how self-controlled I had been; how successfully I had devoted myself to the delights of Prague and to the challenges of my violin; how conscientiously I had not written. Now I could be self-controlled no longer.

  “The princess said she would come in person to the sale.” Mr. Tomin looked at me, glowing with pride.

  “That’s wonderful. But I wonder if you could tell me anything more about the Harcourts.”

  He looked at me, surprised by my evident curiosity, and began to shake his head.

  “I ask only because they’re very important British collectors,” I said; and I waited for my bait to be taken. Occasionally Mr. Tomin had to be galvanized into recollection.

  “You know them?” he asked shrewdly.

  “Yes.”

  “And you think they have the … resources to make an impact on the sale?”

  “I know they do.”

  My confidence revived Mr. Tomin’s powers of recollection at once. He went on to describe to me a couple who could only be Ella’s father and stepmother.

  “He has blond hair, thinning on top, and walks very straight. Her hair is red and very … big.”

  “Did they have anyone with them? A daughter perhaps?” I endured a knowing look from the auctioneer.

  “I don’t know,” he said slowly, teasing me. “No, I don’t think so.” But seeing my disappointment he took pity. “Wait, though. Let me see. Now that I come to think of it, they did have someone with them.”

  “A woman with short blond hair?”

  “I think so. Yes. But she left before them.”

  I snatched up the visitors’ book and looked again at the Harcourts’ Prague address. The hotel which they had listed was perhaps a minute’s walk from where I stood; and I made an effort to control my excitement as it occurred to me that Ella might, at that very moment, be in one of the rooms under the gables which I could see from the large windows of the auction house. Excusing myself hurriedly from Mr. Tomin, I dodged through the lines of people staring at the paintings and vaulted down the gallery steps into the crush of the square, crossing four lanes of traffic without a sidewards glance, arriving breathless but quickly in the foyer of their hotel.

  Youth demands such instant gratification of its desires. It has not learned patience.

  Certainly I found it difficult to be patient as a polite receptionist informed me that the Harcourts were out and I settled down to an hour’s long and fruitless wait. Gradually my excitement gave way to frustration. But I waited. And finally I was rewarded by the sight of Pamela’s severe form and sculpted hair entering on Alexander’s arm. Husband and wife were talking anxiously together.

  “Excuse me,” I said, planting myself on the carpet in front of them. “I wonder if you remember me. James Farrell. I’m a friend of your daughter’s.”

  Their minds had so obviously been elsewhere that it took a moment for them to register the unexpected presence of a former guest and for the machinery of polite greeting to slide into motion. Alexander took my proffered hand.

  “Hello,” he said, shaking it. “Whatever are you doing here?”

  The words were jovial enough but their lightness was forced. Without knowing why this was I explained briefly the reasons for my presence in Prague and accepted their congratulations on the showing of the Mocsáry collection with a smile.

  “I don’t deserve any of the credit,” I said, “but I’m glad you like the way it’s been done. Will you be coming to the sale?”

  They nodded politely—perhaps Pamela said “Of course”—and made as if to move on. I detained them a moment.

  “Do you know where Ella is?” I asked smiling, keeping my voice steady.

  Her father and stepmother turned an
d looked at me.

  Their faces, I saw now, were drawn; and there was a note of dulled resignation in Alexander’s voice as he said slowly, “Unfortunately, no. She disappeared yesterday. Went off by herself. We haven’t heard a thing from her since then.” He looked at me as though still struggling to believe that this could be so. “We don’t know what has happened to her.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said; and the evident worry in my own face and voice was something of a bond between us. There was a pause.

  “We last saw Ella at the viewing,” said Pamela eventually. “But she left us there. There was something of an argument. We thought she’d be back at the hotel but there was no sign of her last night nor all this morning. We’re half sick with worry.”

  “You must be.”

  “And if you hear anything from her, anything, you will let us know, won’t you?” This from Alexander.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “That’s very kind of you.” We shook hands. “Well we mustn’t take up any more of your time, Mr. Farrell. It was good of you to have come to see us.”

  “If there’s anything I can do …”

  “Of course. Thank you. I’m sure she’ll turn up any moment now.”

  “Yes.”

  They turned from me and began walking towards the lift. “Have you told the police?” I asked after them.

  “A person must be missing for a week before they’ll do anything about it,” Alexander replied, turning. “And stray foreign nationals aren’t high on their list of priorities.”

  “You will call and tell me when she comes back?”

  “Of course. Pamela darling, take his number.” And while they waited on the stairs I scribbled it on a piece of paper which Lady Harcourt put in her purse. Then we said our good-byes again, a little awkwardly, and they went up to their room.

  Outside, the square was full of people laughing and talking, but I moved through them unseeing. In the grip of something between suspicion and hope, I walked quickly home; and as I let myself into Madame Mocsáry’s apartment I found that I had been correct in my assumption. Eric and Ella were sitting on the music room floor, drinking tea.

  The sight of the two of them together comes back clearly to me now, though I thought I had banished it forever. I see them sitting side by side on the stone of that floor; I see the shining gold of Ella’s hair beside the gleaming black of Eric’s; the pallor of her creamy skin beside the olive tones of his. It must have been the first time they had met, though they had known of each other for some time. I see the look in Ella’s eyes as I open the door. I watch her put down her cigarette and rise to her feet in one graceful movement; I hear the tap of her shoes on the stone as she moves towards me; I see that she is wearing black trousers which cling to her thin legs and a black jacket with a wide collar of black fur. In such dark clothes her pallor is almost ghostly; but the green of her eyes could not be more alive. She is smiling, hugging me, holding me; and then we are kissing, and her taste fills me as I run my hand over the fine bones of her spine and pull her closer, holding her tight. It is only as I bury my nose in the fine skin of her lemon-scented neck that I see Eric watching us from the floor with something in his eyes which I dismiss because I don’t understand; and it is only then that I remember myself and pull away from Ella happily, all the frustration of my waiting and my worry gone, and introduce her properly to my friend.

  “We have met already,” Eric says with a certain curtness.

  “Yes we have.” Ella pulls me to the floor to sit beside her at an improvised tea table of packing crates and short discarded planks. “Eric’s been telling me all about the wonderful time you two’ve been having.”

  I hardly remember the rest of that conversation. What I do remember is that my eyes met Eric’s as Ella said this and that I smiled. I remember also that he did not respond at once, but that as I went on smiling his face softened and he grinned at me and I felt relief at the passing of an awkward moment. I remember that tea was poured. I remember also that as I took my first sip I thought of Pamela and Alexander, alone on their hotel staircase.

  “I’ve been talking to your parents, Ella,” I said quietly.

  “Have you really?” She made an attempt at nonchalance. It was not convincing. “How are they?”

  “Worried sick.”

  There was a pause. I watched, excited despite myself, as she opened her bag, found a packet, took a cigarette from it, put it to her lips, lit it. Slowly, deeply, she inhaled. “I know you must think me awful for running off and leaving them like that,” Ella said.

  I did not reply.

  “But I can’t tell you how badly I needed to see you. And they don’t let me out of their sight for a minute.”

  I began a question but she raised a hand to stop me.

  “There’s plenty of time for all that later. A lot has happened since I last saw you, James. A lot.” She looked at Eric and then at me. There was silence. “I suppose I’d better go and find Daddy and Pamela and let them know I’m all right,” said Ella at length. “Oh God this is awful.” She got up to go. “If you’ll walk with me I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “All right.”

  My lover extended a hand to my friend. “It was lovely to meet you,” she said, smiling. “I do hope we’ll see much more of each other now that we’ve finally met.”

  Eric took her hand and murmured something. “I’ll see you later,” he said to me.

  I nodded.

  And together Ella and I left the apartment and made our way down the great shadowy staircase bathed in short bursts of inadequate light. In the dark on the second landing I felt her hand in mine and smelled her scent and kissed her. And as we kissed I knew the sheer joy of reunion; the complete and overwhelming power of our passion; the force of its fusion. And I did not have the sense to be frightened by it.

  CHAPTER 17

  ISTRUGGLE NOW FOR THE PRECISE WORDS ELLA USED. I can catch her tone; can follow her expression; can watch her face and trace the changing patterns on it. But her words come back to me only slowly, for when I first listened to them I was distracted by the flick of her hair; the tap of her light quick step; the neatness of her waist; the outline of her breasts; the ring of her voice. I don’t remember being mystified by her presence in Prague or by the sudden way in which she had deserted her parents; for the arrogance of youthful love provided all the explanation I required. But as I listened to her I remembered Camilla Boardman’s breathless letter and Ella’s own words in the empty sitting room of Madame Mocsáry’s apartment; and they pierced the haze of my euphoria as we threaded our way through the crowds on Sokolska Street and turned left into Wenceslas Square.

  “I can’t face Daddy and Pamela just yet,” Ella was saying, almost pleadingly. “I need to talk properly to you, Jamie. I need your help. Isn’t there anywhere we could go just for a moment? Somewhere where nobody would know us?”

  “You forget that this is not London,” I replied. “There’s no need for secrecy.” And smilingly I guided her into a small coffee shop I knew on the corner. Being so centrally placed it lacked the back street charm of other establishments but it would serve our purpose. And soon we were sitting at a back table and ordering espressos from a waitress with badly dyed blond hair and alarming eyebrows.

  “Now,” I began when the coffee had been placed before us, “what do you need to talk to me about?”

  “I don’t suppose you know anything about it at all, do you?” she said slowly.

  “I know some things, I think,” I ventured, unsure precisely what “it” was but guessing that it had something to do with the breaking of her engagement to Charlie.

  “What do you know, Jamie? What can you know?”

  Briefly I told her the outline of my letter from Camilla Boardman.

  She paused, taking it in. Then, sighing, she said wryly, “No one steals a person’s thunder quite like Camilla, do they?”

  I shook my head and smiled. Ella was not smiling.

 
“Well she’s given you the outsider’s version and it’s interesting to know what my friends think of me, certainly. But the truth is a little more complex than what she’s told you. A little more complex and a little less pretty.”

  “Go on.”

  “Well the fact of the matter is that my family—and from what you say at least some of my friends—are beginning to consider the possibility that I may be a crackpot. Off my rocker, you know.” Ella paused as I took this in. “And the worst of it is that it’s my own wretched fault.” She took another drag on her cigarette. “I suppose I had better begin at the beginning, hadn’t I?” she said, taking my hand.

  I nodded.

  Silence.

  “I thought it was all some silly mistake on the newspapers’ part,” I began at last.

  “If it were only that I wouldn’t mind. But unfortunately it’s more serious than gossip. Oh I’m not really mad,” she went on hastily. “It’s a complete … But I should begin at the beginning. Forgive me if I repeat some of the things I said at Seton. It’s just important for me to keep some kind of grip over where reality ends and fiction begins in all of this.”

  “All right.”

  There was another pause. Ella took a deep breath.

  “You know about my grandmother and my aunt and the generally shaky mental history of my family,” she said quietly.

  I nodded.

  “Well my father’s obsessed by it. Understandably, I think. If your mother and your twin sister had killed themselves you’d worry about your own children, wouldn’t you? Particularly if your only daughter happened to be the living image of her grandmother. It would be a constant reminder. Do you follow?”