The Janeites

by Nicolas Freeling

  When we fought with the thick canes we had masks and padded clothing. They still hurt, considerably. But we didn’t spit at one another. William picked up the knife and closed it, went round the counter and collected the pistol; had now all the weaponry that had been on view: there might be more but it wasn’t a worry.

  “Pick yourself up. Now you answer my question.” The man got up and backed away but he wasn’t hurt.

  “You’ll get nothing out of me. We’ll meet you again, and I’ll know you, and there’ll be no witnesses.” Of a sudden William felt pain, sharp and insistent, inside him.

  “I see, or I hear, anything of you, little man, ever – ever – when the PJ picks you up there’ll be traces of heroin in your pockets. You’ll be done for possession, for dealing, and for whatever else they care to think up.” There had been a sting, going in; he hadn’t been as fast as he would have liked. Ach, it was nothing – a cut along the ball of the thumb. Bleeding as a hand will; he sucked it. Shit, he’s got blood on his trousers.

  “You’re a nasty little man. If there weren’t black beetles you’d starve.” The pain in the gut was disagreeable: he had enough of all this. He only had a paper handkerchief to wrap inside his hand. He felt under the counter till he found the lock release, walked out, dodged across the road and threw the weaponry in the river. Perhaps that was a mistake; hell with it, the police could fish the rubbish out if they should feel inclined. He hadn’t been all that clever but he didn’t care. He walked along the road to where he had left the Porsche, drove home, put a bit of sticking-plaster on his hand. This pain was getting worse.

  Bad enough, indeed, that he decided to give the doctor a ring. Fellow went Mm, and Perhaps you’d better come in and see me, and maybe we’d better get you into hospital, and it might be a good idea if we got a few tests done. This was an unappetizing prospect. He rang Raymond’s office number, got Silvia, without too many magic passwords got Ray, who was matter-of-factly brief.

  “Nix hospital. Salve me ab ora leonis” a good sort of incantation. “Lie on the sofa. Go to bed if you want to. Unwind and breathe deeply. Nice long Brückner symphony on the player and I’ll be around to get you organized. Unimportant, don’t give it any thought.”

  When he pulled up his shirt for Dr Valdez’ fingertips the pain went away: nice, these petty miracles.

  “What did I tell you? Largely psychological, you’ve been putting yourself under strain. Got to get you cared for. Variety of kind women. Biddy to do the housekeeping, pigsty around here. Green tea and a few special things to eat. Feet up awhile, rest and stop pelting about, a day or so. Masseuse for an hour, I know a good one, she’ll come here, smells delicious. A few more things I’ll see to. Drift on a cloud of euphoria. For now, small injection,” ticking the needle with his fingernail to get the bubble out. “Stretch out and be comfortable.”

  “What’s that, morphia?”

  “Heavens no, calming potion. Bath would be a good idea, lovely big one you’ve got here. What’s this with the thumb?”

  “Aimed to cut my wrists but got fainthearted,” feeling a lot better and pleased at finding a joke. “You’ll be back, Ray, will you?”

  “Got to go to Paris so not this evening. Tomorrow yes. Nice to be rich. What you need is a few servants, as in grand hotel. I hope this woman’s a good cook; I better go and dig her out. Just think of the food you’d be getting in hospital!”

  Part Three

  Barbour. Doctor Barbour. What is this doctorate? Not, it’s thought, medicine. Literature, music? Law is likeliest. An alumnus of somewhere quite grand; Amhurst or Dartmouth. Jokes, and suppositions, have never brought one much further: PermRep he remains. Dr Smethwyck Barbour; would his friends call him Bill? Cronies, in the State Department, are said to call him Smithy. The sheen upon him is of privilege, power, old money. He’s probably S.B.III or even IV. Eleanor his wife calls him ‘Dear’ in public, speaks of him as ‘the Chief’ and it’s not seriously supposed she says Woofums in bed. There are no children known of.

  A nice old house has been acquired for him, and pretty grand; spacious is the word for the reception rooms; suitable. Quite nicely furnished; Eleanor frequents antique dealers and has been known to buy pieces. There’s a garden, there are offices, and there are a couple of aides and a secretary, ensconced. It’s smooth here, and it’s cool. Quite as grand as the Secretary-General and a lot more formal.

  He is known to dislike and possibly to despise Strasbourg, but perhaps he also looks down on Brussels: it doesn’t do to let those people at the Commission think one is at their beck and call. A nice striker of balances, he has a little plane and pops across a lot, up to Bonn (annoyed at the move to Berlin), over to Paris, to München (a lot more congenial). He has plenty of seniority, and even more discretion. Most of these people are heavy-handed, let you know they stand here for the Superpower. He can’t abide the French but mustn’t let it show. Brits are no better – sly, selfish and secretive.

  To be truly discreet is a difficulty. Government’s man in a sensitive listening post – these little towns are all eyes and ears; Bonn no better, or Brussels either. But neither is Washington his ideal.

  This total conviction, that everyone bar ourselves is unspeakable, isn’t of course confined to Washington.

  There are diplomatic jokes on the subject. Often given the shape of a question-answer sequence.

  ‘What is the difference between God and the French?’

  ‘God does not believe himself to be French.’

  ‘How would this apply to Brits?’

  ‘They used to be quite keen on God. Sufficient unto themselves, no need of God nowadays.’

  ‘So what about Poles?’

  ‘They hardly need God, since the Virgin will always get them out of trouble.’

  ‘And Italians?’

  ‘God can be relied upon to be patriotic when really needed.’ Some indeed were sceptical of this ‘caricatural presentation’ of Dr Barbour.

  “I’m not believing this; he can’t be that awful.”

  One can only describe people the way one sees and hears them. Or of them, mostly, which is going to be a bit spiteful. The Marquis, who being Foreign Minister knew everybody, said he was going to fix the little plane; wouldn’t gather quite enough speed and crash at the end of the runway, goodness how sad.

  Discretion is a state of mind. Dr Barbour had known Congressmen, and even Senators, lamed and sometimes permanently, by indiscretions. Avoid even the appearance of – but the bow cannot stay forever bent. He plays bridge, in quite a competitive way. Likes a spot of tennis but it’s only doubles these days. A little night-music, sometimes.

  Mrs Barbour, dear Eleanor, knows how to behave in public; runs the house well, good with servants, caterers, ‘the help’. Hardly a satisfactory helpmeet. He has thought of a divorce, but her relatives are influential, could damage a career heading, if all goes well, for Under-secretaryship. He has been too long out here in the backwoods.

  He had heard of Madame Bénédicte’s discreet ways. No prostitutes; quite so. She had introduced Crystal; now there was a nice girl. He had to admit that he had formed an attachment. Warmth; exactly what was missing in his life.

  He had not liked a facile expression, but – getting under his skin; how else would one put it? He wanted to feel that she was a private, an exclusive possession. He had been upset, to say the least, to learn that this was not so. Silly girl, had also ‘formed an attachment’.

  He knew nothing of the man; what he could learn he did not like. Bohemian sort of man, happy-go-lucky type, which somehow made matters worse. What could be done about this? Who could he take into confidence? Not, of course, any of his own people. The realization, disagreeable, that Madame B. was already in his confidence put him out further.

  The man worked in some research institute, was said even to be a doctor. Could he be discredited, compromised? This was not enough. Means had to be found for detaching Crystal from this undesirable friendship: she’d got much too fa
miliar with the fellow.

  Oddly enough, Dr Barbour disliked violence, much as Dr Valdez does; they have that much in common.

  He went in the end, making the best of a bad job, to Madame Bénédicte in search of a suggestion. What he learned there ended by reassuring him.

  Intimidation. Familiar word, quite frequent in the mouth, without, perhaps, one’s having explored the full extent of its meaning. Sarcasms, the cutting phrase. In debate a skill he makes use of; the suggestion that an opponent is ill-prepared, ill-briefed; his assumptions are laughable, opinions untenable, his grasp of the subject pitiable. The word has an intellectual cast. Even as a schoolboy (a tall, robust schoolboy) it would never have occurred to him to say, Give me that desirable object or I’ll beat you up. In early years he had discovered the power of the snub, the glacial put-down. Physical intimidation, the large fist, the nailed boot, had never entered his world. Madame Bénédicte had a different viewpoint. One would not wish to enquire into where – or how – learned.

  “You need know nothing about it. For payment made, value received.”

  “I don’t want Crystal hurt.”

  “No no. That will be quite unnecessary. She’ll get the message.”

  It had indeed been impeccable, in the sense of quiet, professional, anonymous, efficient. But there had been a sequel. This was disquieting, because it threatened indiscretions.

  He had not been given the name of ‘Monsieur Philippe’. Thought had shown him that his own way wouldn’t do. An innuendo campaign – charlatans, drug addicts – could too easily be traced. The direct – the physical approach: nobody would think of him. Out of character.

  Raymond had had an abrupt phone call.

  “Doctor Valdez, I have to tell you that Monsieur le Marquis died.” Yes, Patricia was the secretary’s name. “This was sudden. It was peaceful. In bed, perhaps asleep, we can’t be sure.”

  “I don’t think he’d want any comments.”

  “There’ll be an announcement this evening. It’s not known yet. I’m ringing a few people I thought should hear.”

  “Like William? I’ll save you the trouble.”

  “That would be kind. The funeral, you know – pomp and circumstance.” And on top of this – William himself.

  “Ray? Sorry to bother you. I’m not feeling too chipper. Rather a lot of pain.”

  “Ah? All right, loosen up, don’t take any pills and I’ll be with you soon’s I get the car out.”

  So goes the world.

  “Now – once we’ve got you comfortable – I want you letting go of everything. Exercise in complete quiet, with everything done for you – grand-hotel style.’

  It hadn’t been difficult to organize. Just the one detail at the end, while getting the man to sleep – writing a prescription for the nurse – telling where to find the door keys: yes, the Marquis.

  “Poor old boy,” said William. “I owed him a lot.” And after a moment “High time, I suppose. He’d outlived his world. So nineteenth century. But I loved him.”

  “I know.”

  “I wonder” – the injection was taking hold – “whether there was a woman in bed with him: I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “Not the sort of detail they’ll make public.”

  He had still one call to make.

  “Joséphine? – Ray Valdez.”

  “I suppose you’ve heard the news.”

  “Yes, but it has only precipitated me.”

  “That sounds ominous.”

  “You free this evening?”

  “What can you be implying? Whoever was in bed with the old boy it wasn’t me.”

  “No such imputation nor insinuation.”

  “I see. An ulterior motive. Shall we be funereal together?”

  “That’s the idea. I can catch the evening shuttle.”

  “We going out or staying in? Pick me up here.”

  “On wings.”

  Thoughts on the plane were brief and simple. A moment of sleep would do him good, for it had been a busy day. Just the one though and that quite good theology.

  Nothing gets wasted.

  A lovely little kip, that. Ringing Joséphine’s doorbell mightily refreshed. She was in a training-suit, as though just in from a basketball game.

  “I can be changed in five minutes. You appear quite informal yourself,” glancing at his little shoulder-bag.

  “I left in a hurry. Evening dress is at the cleaners.”

  “There now. And I sent my crinoline to have the waist taken in. Well then – we’ve time for a beer.”

  “If you’ll allow me to take a shower I do have a clean shirt.”

  “What’s with all this mad haste? You’re never thinking of going back tonight.”

  “No, tomorrow. I’ve also a toothbrush.”

  “So where are you thinking of spending the night?”

  “With you of course, what a silly question.” There, he’d got it said. He was grateful to her for making it easy.

  “You’re burning to be in bed with me?”

  “Since the moment I laid eyes on you.”

  “Good, because I’ve been burning myself.”

  She wondered about this, between small sips, drinking out of the bottle like a boy. He choked suddenly, the giggle burning the inside of his nose. A Belgian beer, and its name is ‘Sudden Death’. She watched gravely while he mopped streaming eyes and blew his nose.

  “So this is serious.”

  “I’m afraid so,” said Raymond. “I know only that I’ve been unserious for a longish time. I know the time has come for me to be very – very – serious.” Since she couldn’t possibly have known, pointing to the label on the beer bottle. She appreciated, with the shadow of a smile.

  “The time has come to be very very brave – isn’t that what they were supposed to say when they called you for the guillotine?”

  “I would hardly need telling. They gave you, I believe, a clean shirt. With the collar ready to rip.” You made, first your peace with God, but this thought he did not speak.

  Her smile was getting broader.

  “Speaking of clean shirts…” One had to stand up, however shaky the legs.

  “Is your shower wide enough for two?”

  “This is adultery.”

  “One reason for being very serious. There are more.”

  “I wished you to know only that I am also a serious woman.”

  “Let’s dress and go out, don’t you think? I’ve hunger pangs all over.”

  “I agree. While looking forward to being back.”

  “Oh just the neighbourhood pub. Because of all the Ministries round here, fairly quiet of an evening. But quite Smart. Not suggesting a place with green mould growing all over it.”

  Lots of old tat, rather dusty, at which Raymond looked with approval.

  “That’s why I brought you. Tourists look, and flee. At lunchtime it’s full of Chefs de Cabinet, conspiring.” The carte was in harmony, classic and antiquated. Tête de veau en tortue. Sweetbread with crayfish. Grilled turbot on its bone.

  “They’ve lovely fresh vegetables. And outstanding cheese. Not very romantic.”

  “I don’t think we wanted to be all that romantic. Just a little.” He stretched his hand across the table. She put hers in it.

  “One thing I can tell you – that I won’t be coming here again. Except with you.’” The wine was ‘Les Bonnes Mares’ of a year not ordinarily thought outstanding.

  “Joséphine.”

  “I’m listening,” wide awake.

  “I have to be at work tomorrow.”

  “Which is today, and you’re not looking forward to that ghastly plane.”

  “Nor to more of the same.”

  “No my poor ass, I’m coming with you.” Doctor Valdez sat bolt upright in bed, heaving heard ‘a funny noise’. “Ssh. Don’t clutch me like that, you’re hurting me. Geoffrey will not be pleased but will jolly well have to put a good face on it. That’s my home you know. Were you frightened I wo
uld want to be your live-in shack job?”

  “Let’s get this clear,” switching on the light to show he meant it, at which she gave way to the ‘silent laugh’ he is learning to enjoy. “I have no shackjob. It’s perfectly true and I’ll admit that there was one. She disappeared – some time ago. I didn’t give her the sack, it’s a complicated story which I didn’t grasp then, don’t understand now, and is certainly better left untold. I think she gave me the sack, but I’ve no idea why. Vanity to think I had anything to do with it. Likeliest is that she found a better man and didn’t tell me; some idiotic idea of not wanting to hurt me.” Whatever William’s doings, about which he has some suspicions, he’s not going to mention these to William’s wife.

  With whom I am in bed this witching three-in-the-morning. “Are there any cigarettes?”

  “No. I stopped. It probably won’t last long. I do these silly things.” Now she was sitting up too, crying, shouting, wishing she had a cigarette, Dio merda, all at the same time. “And I’ll be true to you for as long as you want me, filthy bastard that you are.”

  Old-fashioned novelists tended to clear their throat at such moments, perhaps with a coy disclaimer about the life of the emotions being too difficult for them: ripping aside curtains of intimacy, stuff like that. Jane Austen had the sense never to start. “You remind me of a phrase,” said Joséphine, “which the Marquis used to quote; amused him. Something about Lowells talk only to Cabots and Cabots talk only to God? You’re like that, really. You’ll only be faithful to God in the long run.”

  He got up, slipping sideways not to disturb her sleep, walked into the living room, sat his bare skin on a chair, looked at the tall windows of the seventh arrondissement. Shutters were closed and doubtless booby-trapped (cat burglars have been known), a window hygienically open (the Sainte-Anne family brought up doubtless by an English nanny). There would be traffic still on the avenue but in these exclusive streets stillness. Rue de Grenelle, Rue St Dominique, Rue de l’Université. Palaces.