The Experimentalist

by Nick Salaman

  ‘She is full of surprises is our Katie. Sharp as a surgical lance.’

  ‘Ouch. Yes. And as therapeutic no doubt … Well, Katie, to answer your question. Sometimes I’m up at the castle where our research company and our labs are, but mostly I’m at head office here in town.’

  Katie was about to make some reply about wanting to see the castle, but was interrupted by waiters dishing out hot bread rolls and dishes of butter. The table was filling up fast. Someone came and sat down next to Marie but she didn’t immediately take him in. She gave a polite half-glance and looked back at Grindlay. He offered a bread roll.

  ‘This is the bit I always like most,’ said Marie, tucking into the butter. ‘Somehow the rest of the meal never quite matches up to the first bite of bread.’

  ‘The sauce is called appetite,’ said Grindlay. ‘Doesn’t Shakespeare saying something about it?’

  ‘Let good digestion wait on it,’ said Margot.

  ‘Whew! You girls. You’re too damn quick for me,’ he laughed.

  Her new companion, the one she hadn’t taken in, turned to Marie. He was not white nor was he exactly brown. He did not look like an Arab. His face was hawk-like, accipitrine, a word she had saved against a rainy day.

  ‘“You are neither white nor brown but as the heavens fair,”’ she said.

  ‘I’m Joe,’ he told her. ‘I am a guest.’

  ‘We are all guests at the banquet of life,’ she said, she really didn’t know why. It was either absurdly pretentious or unsuitably deep, she could not decide which. Maybe the man could not either. He glanced at her, amused.

  ‘You’re not the usual sort of guest here,’ she said.

  ‘How do you know? It’s your first night here.’

  She laughed. ‘I just know,’ she said.

  ‘And you’re right. It is my first time too. Good food…’

  The beef Wellington had arrived, perfectly rare but delicate, like cutting a Christmas pudding, with new potatoes suspiciously like Jersey royals (flown in) and fresh-minted garden peas. Merriman liked to keep the English flavour. It gave the occasion a certain cachet, no matter what people got up to later.

  ‘Who invited you?’

  He indicated Grindlay.

  ‘You work with him?’

  ‘Oh no. I supply their wine. I am a wine merchant.’

  ‘This is yours?’ she asked. It was a gorgeous wine, deep red but very clear, with not a hint of inkiness.

  ‘No, but I wish it was. It comes from a vineyard very close to Romanée-Conti. You know about wine?’

  ‘Not as much as I should.’

  ‘I should be very happy to instruct you sometime,’ he said. ‘Wine and woman … all we need is song.’

  ‘Wine and woman and song, three things garnish our way, yet is day over long,’ she said.

  ‘I am sure it would not be,’ he said. ‘What is that anyway?’

  ‘It is a villanelle. It consists of a series of verses in which the first and third line of the poem keep repeating alternately. It is a French form but the poet is English in this case.’

  ‘How does it go?’ he asked.

  ‘Wine and woman and song,

  Three things garnish our way:

  Yet is day over long.

  Lest we do our youth wrong,

  Gather them while we may:

  Wine and woman and song.

  Three things render us strong,

  Vine leaves, kisses and bay;

  Yet is day over long … And so on,’ she said.

  ‘Well, I didn’t expect a poetry lesson this evening. Hey, Jack. This girl has been giving me an education,’ he shouted above the general hubbub.

  Grindlay turned. ‘You know, Joe, I think she has a lot of surprises up her sleeve,’ he said.

  Marie had a sudden frisson. Did he mean just that or was there another meaning hidden underneath like pepper under a strawberry, something only a sensitive palate could discern? Margot shot her a glance. Did she think so too? Were all these people here in on a secret that was hidden from her? It was easy for her after all she had been through, after all they had put her through, to develop a certain paranoia in strange surroundings. All these people, all these events, might be connected and every new strand could lead back to the one single inescapable one.

  The pudding came and went – it was indeed a strawberry confection with the lightest of orange cake and cream to set off the sweet sharpness of the fruit.

  ‘Only the English really understand a strawberry,’ she said to no one in particular.

  ‘Can strawberries speak? What language do they use? Strawberry talk? Let us talk strawberry,’ said Grindlay.

  ‘As I was going to Strawberry Fair, ri-fol ri-fol, buttercups and daisies,’ sang Margot, and that was the end of that.

  There was coffee, taken at the table, with petits fours of the most delectable kind, strange fruits half-known and naughty biscuits and cakes that sent a shiver through your mind. The lights grew dimmer and the music changed to a darker note.

  ‘What is it they do up there?’ she asked the man called Joe.

  ‘I am a Red Indian,’ he said, as if she had not spoken. ‘Did you ever meet a Red Indian wine merchant?’

  ‘No, I am afraid not.’

  ‘Don’t be afraid.’

  ‘I am afraid,’

  ‘And I think you are right to be. Life is full of latency. The … isn’t over yet.’

  The Beach Boys seemed to become all at once very loud. Someone was shrieking with laughter. She lost one of the Indian wine merchant’s words.

  ‘What did you say?’

  She thought he had said that the game was not over yet, but she could not be sure. Grindlay was shouting something at him now. The moment had passed. She thought fleetingly of her father alone, in a noisy place, with people shouting, trying to make sense of where he was, what he was doing, the mystery that he was trying to uncover, taking upon himself the plight of his distant ancestor beset by men stealing his land and his money, killing his people, covering his ears, shutting his eyes, trying to think but disturbed by witches.

  People were leaving the table now, some to listen to the cabaret and dance a little, some to go to the casino and some already making their way upstairs.

  ‘Hey,’ said Grindlay to Margot and Marie, ‘like to play?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Margot.

  But Marie wanted to see the cabaret.

  ‘Me too,’ said Joe the Red Indian. ‘Let’s go along.’

  ‘Meet up later,’ said Margot, giving Marie a little wave.

  Marie and Joe walked over to the cabaret room which was set out like a lounge bar with separate tables and comfortable chairs facing a small nightclub-type dance floor at the edge of which, facing them, sat a lean, rangy man at a piano. She didn’t catch his name at that point. He wore an amused grin and he was playing, expertly and with a kind of sprung energy that reflected his expression, a selection of melodies as a kind of overture to his act. She had the feeling that this was going to be good. She felt Joe’s hand steal round her shoulders and made no attempt to remove it. It was the first time she had had any sexual overture, apart from Middleburg’s if you could call that an overture, since her London days and she felt good about it. When everyone had settled down, the man started singing in an amused, springy and sardonic voice which was curiously satisfying.

  ‘Would you like your soul grilled or fried?’

  That was the question they asked me when I died.

  I can tell you I was quite astonished

  And I asked for the waiter to be admonished.

  ‘For my soul is not a fish like a sole or a sprat.

  A soul, I said, is more valuable than that,

  It is a precious and eternal item.

  A soul, I said, lasts ad infinitum.

  ‘It is not to be fried or devilled or grilled

  And served on a plate like a cutlet, frilled.

  That’s what you think, they chortled to me,

&nb
sp; But a soul to us is a delicacy,

  ‘It tastes like a crisp, with a touch of pancetta,

  Or Italian flat bread only very much better,

  It tastes of smoked salmon, a hint there of fish,

  But no way does it spoil this exquisite dish…

  ‘There’s a soupçon of foie gras, a little burnt toast,

  And a tweak of slipped sanctity – that we love most.

  That’s all very well, I said to the creature.

  But you’re not having mine, whatever your nature.

  ‘Down here, they said, that is not to your choice.

  What to do, then? I asked, with tremulous voice.

  Too late, they replied, your soul is our food.

  They gave me a piece – and it was rather good!’

  The elastic-fingered man at the piano had a wonderfully sardonic face. You felt he knew the absurdity of the world and was pained, but at the same time amused and even moved, by it. The words were fine but the music was extraordinarily plangent: tuneful, gay, wistful.

  ‘I tried dinners, I tried diamonds, I did everything to please. I gave her all my love and she gave me … herpes…’

  That was how it seemed at the time, the cleverest thing in the world, though she spotted Merriman looking thoughtful at the words. No Merrymaid ever had such a thing as the dreaded HSV-2, at least not officially, and the company doctor worked overtime to keep it that way. Any suggestion of a blister or weeping sore and you were out – at least temporarily.

  ‘Oh for a robot, a robot lover

  Once you’ve got one, you’ll never want another.

  A silent companion most of the time

  She don’t need champagne or mescal and lime

  ‘Just sits around with a goofy grin

  But on the job she goes like sin

  And you don’t have to say

  After each screw:

  ‘How was it, how was it, how was it,

  How was it, darling, for you?’

  He put tremendous verve and stretch and sinew into his how was it. It brought the house down and everyone joined in. And then there was ‘The Girl Called Flo’.

  ‘That day we ran away all the way to Santa Fe,

  And the train broke down and we made merry –

  We drank the bar dry, mostly she, partly I,

  And then she started on Mexican sherry!

  ‘Oh no, no, no, that girl called Flo,

  She’s the pick of all the crop!

  She looks so cute but she’s full of guile,

  Give her an inch and she’ll take a mile,

  ‘She says she’s a virgin but she’s in denial,

  And she don’t know when to stop!’

  By the time it was over, Marie discovered that she hadn’t laughed for far too long and that laughter made her feel smoochy. She took the Red Indian away to dance and it was like copulation with clothes on.

  ‘You want to come upstairs?’ she asked.

  He shook his head. ‘Never on a first date,’ he laughed.

  ‘I thought I was meant to say that.’

  ‘Let’s have a coffee,’ he suggested. ‘Anything else to drink?’

  She shook her head. She needed to be more clear-headed than she was. Around them, couples in varying stages of affection (disaffection was not allowed at Merrymaids but there was just room for disinclination) jostled, seethed and clung.

  They sat on a sofa and he ordered from a waiter.

  ‘You want to see the castle?’ he asked.

  She was sober again, lust subsiding as quickly as it arrived. She was on her guard now.

  ‘Which castle?’

  ‘Where I deliver my wine.’

  ‘What is its name?’

  ‘Château Cauchemar they call it.’

  She was interested now. ‘Do you know what that means?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a name, isn’t it?’

  ‘It means Nightmare Castle. I believe it was modelled on one in France. Some mad millionaire. Its original name was Tiffauges. I don’t know why they changed its name.’

  ‘So you know the place?’ he asked, surprised.

  ‘I bought a book called All around LA this morning. I was reading something. Castles in California. That sort of thing.’

  ‘Don’t you want to go? It’s only a little more than half an hour away.’

  ‘I’m fine. It just gave me a shiver. Not a bad shiver. You gave me a shiver.’

  ‘I like you, Katie. You don’t seem like ordinary Merrymaid material, not that I’m a member. But I can tell you’re different. That’s why I don’t want to go upstairs with you. It’s like a rich man’s knocking shop.’

  ‘Oh. Thank you.’

  ‘Why are you here at all?’

  ‘I need to earn money.’

  ‘Good reason.’

  ‘What sort of Red Indian are you?’

  ‘The Chumash Tribe. We were coastal people, out on the Channel Islands, San Clemente. But I have to say my mother was from Norway and my father was only half Chumash. So I am a mongrel.’

  ‘I like to think of you as Red Indian. It’s very exotic. Do you mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘I have never met a Red Indian before. Come to that I’ve not met many people at all.’

  ‘Come on. Let’s go to the castle. It looks good and spooky at night. Don’t worry. I have a driver. In fact I even have some brandy in the car.’

  She thought: it’s not the first time he’s visited Cauchemar by night, but she dismissed it as inconsequential. The castle of which she’d heard so much was about to be revealed; a place of ill omen for her father – and what for herself? Considerations of Joe’s past, or indeed his future, liaisons were scarcely relevant at this point. Indeed, Mr Merriman himself would have been proud of her since the prevailing ethos at Merrymaids was that only the present mattered.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘The car is at the door.’

  ***

  It was a Roller. It was warm. They were separated from the driver (who really did look like a Red Indian) by a glass partition. As soon as the car glided away, Joe brought out some Armagnac and poured her a glass. She sipped it cautiously. She glimpsed the label on the bottle. The Armagnac was older than both their ages put together.

  ‘Very good,’ she said. ‘But why a Rolls, not a Buick?’

  ‘When you’re in the wine business you need to travel first class.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  She had said goodbye to Margot who wondered whether she should come too, but Grindlay had assured her that the Red Indian was a good guy.

  ‘Best of luck,’ she had said. ‘He’s all right. See you tomorrow.’

  Margot knew why the castle held a fascination for Marie. There was a secret in it, as in most castles, but this was a bigger one than most and had to be uncovered.

  The car rolled on, through the long streets and out into the darkness, the brandy warming her as they left the streets behind. She held Joe’s hand and he put his arm round her shoulders. They were moving up into the hills now, through wooded valleys and past rocky outcrops. It struck her again that she should feel nervous. Somewhere out there Middleburg was searching for her and she was, even now, going to his lair, the very nerve-centre of the company’s operation. The hills on either side rose higher. The car and its occupants seemed alone in an increasing hostile world.

  ‘What happens out here?’ she asked Joe.

  ‘Very little. The badlands means the land is bad: little water, just rocks. They used to do some mining and some farming, but nothing much now. If anything, they mine for water.’

  ‘So why did they plant a castle out here?’

  ‘It’s owned by a company called Messinger’s. I think they wanted to be quiet and undisturbed. No one much comes here, though it’s not so far from LA.’

  ‘Who lives in the castle?’

  ‘Only a few keepers and estate guards most of the time, but just now and then it becomes ac
tive like a volcano. The AGM, for instance, is a house party. Big shareholders and vice-presidents. Quite a hooley, it is, and a lot of wine goes down, I’m glad to say. Up beyond the castle are the labs and workforce houses but they mostly keep themselves to themselves.’

  ‘When is the next AGM? Can I come?’

  She had spoken without thinking but Joe looked at her curiously.

  ‘I shouldn’t think so,’ he said slowly. ‘Security is very tight. I’m not invited. I am sometimes allowed to give a little talk about the wine they’re drinking. Perhaps you could be my assistant.’

  ‘Like a magician’s? Spangled tights? I could do that.’

  ‘There is a funny feeling about the castle if you ask me. Call it my Indian blood, but there is definitely an atmosphere. Some say there are parts of it still undiscovered. They say it was brought over stone by stone, sometimes room by room. Something came over with it. The nobleman who lived in it was said to have raised demons. Look. Up ahead to the right. There is it now.’

  The hairs on the back of her neck rose as she gazed. The huge edifice frowned down upon them as if they were naughty children who had strayed into the wrong place. It perched over, or perhaps straddled was the better word, a dip between two peaks, looking like something out of Grimm. She gasped.