by Lodge, David
“Marvellous,” said Ronald Frobisher. “I had a similar experience. I was sitting in Washington Square at the same time, thinking about Henry James and basking in this extraordinary sunshine, when suddenly the first sentence of a novel came into my head.”
“Which novel?” said DÉSIRÉE.
“My next novel,” said Ronald Frobisher. “I’m going to write a new novel.”
“What’s it going to be about?”
“I don’t know yet, but I feel somehow that I’ve got my style back. I can sense it in the rhythm of that sentence.”
“By the way,” said Persse, “I met your Japanese translator last summer.”
“Akira Sakazaki? He just sent me his translation of Could Try Harder—it looks like a bride’s prayerbook. Bound in white, with a mauve silk marker.” He refilled Persse’s glass.
“I’d better get some grub inside me before I drink any more of this,” said Persse. “Excuse me.”
He was helping himself to the splendid buffet supper spread out along one wall when a long arm, encased in a charcoal-grey worsted sleeve, very greasy around the wrist, reached over his shoulder and twitched the last remaining slice of smoked salmon away from the platter under his nose. Persse turned round indignantly to find Felix Skinner’s yellow fangs grinning at him. “Sorry, old man, but I’ve a fatal weakness for this stuff.” He dropped the slice of smoked salmon on to a plate already heaped with assorted foods. “What are you doing at the MLA?”
“I might ask you the same question,” said Persse coolly.
“Oh, scouting for talent, testing the market, you know. Did you get my letter, by the way?”
“No,” said Persse.
Felix Skinner sighed. “That’s Gloria, she’ll have to go… Well, we got a second opinion on your proposal, and we’ve decided to commission the book after all.”
“That’s marvellous!” exclaimed Persse. “Will there be an advance?”
“Oh, yes,” said Felix Skinner. “Well, a small one,” he added cautiously.
“Could I have it now?” said Persse.
“Now? Here?” Felix Skinner looked taken aback. “It’s not normal practise. We haven’t even signed a contract.”
“I need two hundred dollars to get back to London,” said Persse.
“I suppose I could give you that on account,” said Felix Skinner grudgingly. “I happened to go to the bank this afternoon.” He took two $100 bills from his wallet and passed them to Persse.
“Thanks a million,” said Persse. “Your good health.” He drained his glass, which was refilled in an absent-minded fashion by a shortish dark-haired man standing nearby with a bottle of champagne in his hand, talking to a tallish dark-haired man smoking a pipe. “If I can have Eastern Europe,” the tallish man was saying in an English accent, “you can have the rest of the world.” “All right,” said the shortish man, “but I daresay people will still get us mixed up.”
“Are they publishers too?” Persse whispered.
“No, novelists,” said Felix Skinner. “Ah, Rudyard!” he cried, turning to greet a new arrival. “So you got here at last. You know young McGarrigle, I think. You were sadly missed at the forum this afternoon. What happened?”
“A disgraceful incident,” said Rudyard Parkinson, puffing out his muttonchop whiskers so that he resembled an angry baboon. “I was just going through passport control at Heathrow—I was already late because I’d had a row with some impertinent chit at the check-in desk—when I was whisked off into a room by two thugs and subjected to a humiliating body-search and a third-degree grilling. I missed my plane in consequence.”
“Good Lord, whatever did they do that for?” said Felix Skinner.
“They claimed it was mistaken identity. No excuse whatever, of course. Do I look like a smuggler? I made an official complaint. I shall very probably sue.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Felix Skinner. “But was it worth coming so late?”
Parkinson began to mutter something about there being some people whom he wanted to meet, Kingfisher, Textel of UNESCO, and so on. Persse scarcely attended. Into his mind at the mention of “Heathrow” had swum the image of Cheryl Summerbee as he had last seen her, crying over her timetable; and it darted through him with the speed of an arrow, that Cheryl loved him. Only his infatuation with Angelica had prevented him from perceiving it earlier. As the consciousness of this fact sank in, Cheryl became endowed, to his mind’s eye, with an aura of infinite desirability. He must go to her at once. He would take her in his arms, and wipe away her tears, and whisper in her ear that he loved her too. He turned away from Skinner and Parkinson, spilling some of his champagne in the process, only to confront Angelica and Lily, each hanging on to an arm of the dark young man in the Donegal tweed jacket who had chaired the forum on Romance. He identified Lily by her red silk dress. Angelica was still wearing her tailored jacket and white blouse. “Hallo, Persse,” she said. “I’d like you to meet my fiancé.”
“Glad to meet you,” said the young man, smiling, “Peter McGarrigle.”
“No, it’s Persse McGarrigle,” he said. “You’re Peter something.”
“McGarrigle,” the young man laughed. “I’ve the same name as you. We’re probably related somehow.”
“Were you ever at Trinity?” said Persse.
“Indeed I was.”
“I’m afraid I did you out of a job once, then,” said Persse. “When they appointed me at Limerick, they thought they were appointing you. It’s been on my conscience ever since.”
“It was the best day’s work anyone ever did for me,” said Peter. “I came to the States in consequence, and I’ve done very well here.” He smiled fondly at Angelica, and she squeezed his arm.
“No hard feelings, Persse?” she said.
“No hard feelings.”
“I heard you were at my paper this afternoon. What did you think of it?” She looked at him anxiously, as though his opinion really mattered.
He was saved from having to reply by the sound of someone rapping on a table nearby. The party hubbub subsided. A man in a sleek pale grey suit was making a speech from halfway up the flight of stairs that connected the two levels of the penthouse suite. “Who is it?” Felix Skinner could be heard enquiring. “Jacques Textel,” Rudyard Parkinson hissed in his ear.
“As most of you know,” Jacques Textel was saying, “UNESCO intends to found a new chair of literary criticism tenable anywhere in the world, and I think it’s no secret that we have been seeking the advice of the doyen of the subject, Arthur Kingfisher, as to how to fill this post. Well, ladies and gentlemen, I have news for you.” Textel paused, teasingly, and Persse looked round the room, picking out the faces, tense and expectant, of Morris Zapp, Philip Swallow, Michel Tardieu, Fulvia Morgana and Siegfried von Turpitz. “Arthur has just told me,” said Jacques Textel, “that he is prepared to come out of retirement and allow his own name to go forward for the chair.”
There was a collective gasp from the listeners, and a storm of applause, mingled with some expressions of a cynical and disapproving nature.
“Of course,” said Textel, “I can’t speak for the appointing committee, of which I am merely the chairman. But I should be surprised if there is any serious rival candidate to Arthur.”
More applause. Arthur Kingfisher, standing just below Textel, held up his hands. “Thank you, friends,” he said. “I know that some people might say that it is unusual for an assessor to put himself forward for the post on which he is advising; but when I agreed to act I thought I was finished as a creative thinker. Today I feel as if I have been given a new lease of life, which I would like to put at the service of the international scholarly community, through the good offices of UNESCO.
“To those friends and colleagues who may have been thinking that their claims to this chair are as good as mine, I will only say that in three years’ time it will be up for grabs again.” More applause, mingled with laughter, some hollow. “Finally, I would like to share with y
ou a particular personal happiness. Song-Mi?” Arthur Kingfisher reached out and took the hand of Song-Mi Lee, gently pulling her up onto the step with himself. “This afternoon, ladies and gentlemen, this beautiful young lady, my companion and secretary for many years, agreed to become my wife.” Cheers, shrieks, whistles, applause. Arthur Kingfisher beams. Song-Mi Lee smiles shyly. He kisses her. More applause.
But who is this little white-haired old lady who steps primly forward to confront the great literary theorist?
“Congratulations, Arthur,” she says.
He stares, recognizes, starts back. “Sybil!” he exclaims, amazed. “Where have you come from? Where have you been? It must be thirty years…”
“Twenty-seven, Arthur,” she says. “Just the age of your daughters.”
“Daughters—what daughters?” says Arthur Kingfisher, loosening his necktie as if he is choking.
“Those lovely twin girls—there.” She points dramatically to Angelica and Lily, who look at each other in amazement. Pandemonium among the audience. Sybil Maiden raises her voice above the hubbub. “Yes, Arthur, you remember when you took my long-preserved virginity during that summer school at Aspen, Colorado, in the summer of ’fifty-three? I thought I was too old to conceive children, but it proved otherwise.” Now there is a breathless hush in the room, as all ears are strained to catch every word of this astonishing story. “A few weeks after we had parted, I discovered that I was pregnant—I, a respectable middle-aged spinster, fellow of Girton College, pregnant—and by a married man, for your wife was still alive then. What could I do but try to conceal the truth? Luckily I was starting a year’s sabbatical in America. I was supposed to be working at the Huntington. Instead, I hid myself in the wilds of New Mexico, gave birth to the twins in the spring of ’fifty-four, smuggled them aboard a plane to Europe in a Gladstone bag—I travelled first class to get extra cabin baggage allowance, and there were no luggage searches and X-rays in those days—took the bag to the toilet as soon as we were airborne, and claimed to have found the babies there. Naturally, no one suspected that I, a supremely respectable spinster aged forty-six, could have been their mother. For twenty-seven years I have been carrying this guilty secret around with me. In vain have I tried to distract myself with travel. In the end it was through travel that I was brought face to face with my own grown-up children. Girls—can you ever forgive your mother for abandoning you?” She throws a piteous look in the direction of Angelica and Lily, who run to her side, and sweep her on to Arthur Kingfisher. “Mother!” “Daddy!” “My babies!” “My girls!” Poor Song-Mi Lee is in danger of being brushed aside, until Angelica stretches out a hand and pulls her into the reunited family circle. “Our second step-mother,” she says, embracing her.
Everybody in the room, it seems, is embracing, laughing, crying, shouting. DÉSIRÉE and Morris Zapp are kissing each other on both cheeks. Ronald Frobisher is shaking hands with Rudyard Parkinson. Only Siegfried von Turpitz looks cross and sulky. Persse grabs his hand and pumps it up and down. “No hard feelings,” he says, “Lecky, Windrush and Bernstein are going to publish my book after all.” The German pulls his hand away irritably, but Persse has not finished shaking it, and the black glove comes off, revealing a perfectly normal, healthy-looking hand underneath. Von Turpitz goes pale, hisses, and seems to shrivel in stature, plunges his hand in his jacket pocket, and slinks from the room, never to be seen at an international conference again.
Lily came across to Persse. “We’re all going on somewhere we can dance,” she said. “You want to come?”
“No thanks,” said Persse.
“We could just go back to the room, if you like,” she said. “You and me.”
“Thanks,” said Persse, “but I ought to be on my way.”
He left the party a few minutes later, at the same time as Philip Swallow. The Englishman’s eye was moist. “I know what it’s like to discover that you have a child you never dreamt existed,” he said, as they waited for the main elevator. “I found I had a daughter like that, once. Then I lost her again.” The lift doors opened and they entered it.
“How was that?”
“It’s a long story,” said Philip Swallow. “Basically I failed in the role of romantic hero. I thought I wasn’t too old for it, but I was. My nerve failed me at a crucial moment.”
“That’s a pity,” said Persse politely.
“I wasn’t equal to the woman in the case.”
“Joy?”
“Yes, Joy,” said Philip Swallow with a sigh. He didn’t seem surprised that Persse knew the name. “I had a Christmas card from her, she said she’s getting married again. Hilary said, ‘Joy? Do we know someone called Joy?’ I said, ‘Just someone I met on my travels.’”
“Hilary is your wife?”
“Yes. She’s a marriage counsellor. Jolly good at it, too. She helped the Dempseys get back together. Do you remember Robin Dempsey—he was at the Rummidge conference.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Persse. “He didn’t seem very contented when I met him.”
“Had some kind of a breakdown last summer, I understand. Janet took pity on him. This is my floor, I think. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
Persse watched Philip Swallow walking down the corridor, swaying a little with fatigue or drink, until the lift doors closed.
…
Persse walked through the Hilton lobby and out into the cold, crisp night. The temperature had returned to normal, and a raw biting wind was blowing down the Avenue of the Americas again. He began to walk in the direction of the YMCA. A black youth sped towards him a few inches above the broad sidewalk. But what Persse had at first taken for winged feet turned out to be attached to roller skates, and what looked like a helmet was a woolly hat worn over a transistor radio headset. Persse, mindful of New York mugging stories, and of the fact that he was carrying two hundred dollars in cash, stopped and tensed in readiness to defend himself. The young man, however, wore a friendly aspect. He smiled to himself and rolled his eyes up into his head; his movements had a rhythmic, choreographed quality, and his approach to Persse was delayed by many loops and arabesques on the broad pavement. He was clearly dancing to the unheard melodies in his earphones. He held a sheaf of leaflets, and as he passed he deftly thrust one into Persse’s hand. Persse read it by the light of a shop window.
“Lonely? Horny? Tired of TV? We have the answers,” it proclaimed. “Girls Unlimited offers a comprehensive service for the out-of-town visitor to the Big Apple. Escorts, masseuses, playmates. Visit our Paradise Island Club. Take a jacuzzi bath with the bathmate of your choice. Have her give you a relaxing massage afterwards. Let it all hang out at our nude discothèque. Too lazy to leave your hotel room? Our masseuses will come to you. Or perhaps you just want some spicy pillow talk to get yourself off… to sleep. Dial 74321 and share your wildest fantasies with…”
Persse ran back to the Hilton lobby and pressed a dime into the nearest payphone. He dialled the number and a familiar voice said, somewhat listlessly: “Hallo, naughty boy, this is Marlene. What’s on your mind?”
“Bernadette,” said Persse. “I’ve got some important information for you.”
2
On the last day of the year, Persse McGarrigle flew into Heathrow on a British Airways jumbo jet. Having only hand-baggage with him, his scuffed and shabby canvas grip, he was one of the first of the passengers to pass through customs and passport control. He went straight to the nearest British Airways Information desk. The girl sitting behind it was not Cheryl. “Yes?” she said. “Can I help you?”
“You can indeed,” he said. “I’m looking for a girl called Cheryl. Cheryl Summerbee. She works for British Airways. Can you tell me where I can find her?”
“We’re not supposed to answer that sort of question,” said the girl.
“Please,” said Persse. “It’s important.” He put all a lover’s urgency into his voice.
The girl sighed. “Well, I’ll see what I can do,
” she said. She pushed the buttons on her telephone and waited silently for an answer. “Oh, hallo Frank,” she said at length. “Is Cheryl Summerbee on shift this morning? Eh? What? No, I didn’t. Oh. You don’t? I see. All right, then. No, nothing. ’Bye.” She put the phone down and looked at Persse, curiously and with a certain compassion. “Apparently she got the sack yesterday,” she said.
“What!” Persse exclaimed. “Whatever for?”
The girl shrugged. “Apparently she tried to get her own back on some bolshie passenger by marking his boarding card ‘S,’ for suspected smuggler. The Excise boys did him over and he complained.”
“Where is she, then? How can I find out her address?”
“Frank said she’s gone abroad.”
“Abroad?”
“She said she was fed up with the job anyway and this was her chance to travel. She’d been saving up, apparently. That’s what Frank said.”
“Did she say where she was going?”
“No,” said the girl. “She didn’t. Can I help you, madam?” She turned aside to help another enquirer.
