by Forrest Leo
Then Simmons adds, ‘Considerably.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘I said, “Considerably.” She is considerably better than you. The poems Miss Elizabeth found display an imagination and verbal dexterity that you have never shown even in your most inspired spells. And if you’ll forgive me, sir, you have not been in a truly inspired place since you were about sixteen.’*
‘Then you are implying,’ I say, reeling, ‘that my fame—’
‘Is based largely upon the ignorance and poor taste of the reading public at large.’*
‘Why have you never said these things before?’ I say, too defeated to move or think.
‘Because you never asked, sir.’
I sigh. I am worn out, overwhelmed, done. ‘You think I should tell the Lancasters.’
‘I do.’
‘Her parents won’t understand.’ It is a feeble protest. Not even a protest—I am too weary to protest, and I begin to suspect that he may be right.
‘I believe that is so, sir.’
‘Well, then what am I to do?’
‘You could try telling her brother, sir.’ Him again.
‘No one has seen her brother in two years!’
‘You could write him a letter, sir, as Miss Elizabeth suggested. Your wife used to do so frequently. She sent letters to the last town in which he was seen, in hopes that he would receive them upon his emergence from the wilderness.’ I didn’t know that. I was not aware Vivien had any correspondents.
‘I can’t put it in a letter,’ I say. I recall my brief cheer at sending him one line about diabolical abduction; it now seems childish.
‘You would feel better, I think, if you did.’
‘I can’t!’ I cry. ‘Look, Simmons, if he were here, I’d tell him—I don’t know how, but I would find a way. But Simmons, HE ISN’T HERE!’
Before Simmons can reply, the doorbell rings.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ he says, and goes to answer it.
I am left alone with my thoughts and my wife’s poems. I pick them up and begin to read. They are very good. They are mystical in subject, but only just. They are not the maudlin, self-pitying things you would expect. They are vigorous and feather-light and impossibly quick-minded, and unlike my own verse their quickness does not disguise want of depth. She writes of joy and wonder and sunrises and adventure, and through it all are somehow answers to life’s mysteries, though even suggesting such a thing sounds silly from my pen. It is the sort of poetry I admired when I was younger and somehow forgot about along the way. I find that I cannot see the words through my tears. I must get hold of myself. I try hitting my head against the desk again. The pain gives me at least something to grab onto.
I hear Simmons open the door, and I hear a booming voice I do not recognise call, ‘VIV! VIVIEN! VIIIIIVIEN!’ The whole house shakes as someone very large jogs down the hall. Then the door to my study bursts open and Ashley Lancaster bounds into the room.*
Five
In Which I Meet an Adventurer Who Informs Me That Things Are Not at All How I Had Thought.
He is scruffy, sunburnt, dressed immaculately in evening clothes, and the most enormous man I have ever seen. He must be six and a half feet tall, and so broad he has to turn sideways to fit through the door frame.*
He is, if anything, handsomer than the papers would lead you to believe. His face is wide and ingenuous, his nose is small, his blond hair comes to a rakish widow’s peak. He has premature crow’s-feet from squinting in glacial sunlight, and small wrinkles at the corners of his mouth from smiling too much. His eyes are the same piercing blue as his sister’s and radiate goodwill. He is in his early thirties.
‘Hello!’ he bellows upon seeing me. I rise, alarmed. ‘My God, you must be Savage!’ he goes on, his voice rattling the paintings on the wall. ‘It’s a pleasure, sir, truly a pleasure! Viv’s told me all about you in her letters!’
He sweeps me up into a bone-crushing embrace, releases me, and kisses me soundly on the mouth. I had not expected that.
All I can manage is a shaky ‘Hello,’ as I wipe his saliva from my lips.
‘I’m sorry, old boy,’ he says, ‘I’m accustomed to the customs of Krakatoa!’ He claps me on the back so hard I nearly fall. His hands are like shovels. ‘Afraid my manners have seen better days! Always like this when I get back from a trip. I’ll be up to snuff and fit for polite company in a week or two. In the meantime I thought I’d stay with you, if you don’t mind. My parents aren’t fond of the re-entry process, truth be told. But this is all for later, by Christ! Where’s my sister! Viv! VIVIEN!’
I am too shocked to do anything but gape at him. I do not know why he is wearing nice clothes.* It seems incongruous. He looks like he ought to be in desert khaki, or stripped to his waist on a raft somewhere in the Pacific, or dressed in seal-skins wrestling polar bears.
‘You feeling alright, old boy?’ he asks, gazing at me solicitously. ‘You’re looking poorly. ’Course I don’t know you—though I feel I do, from Viv’s letters, damn if that woman doesn’t have a way with words—but I’d venture to say you look as though you’ve been trampled by a yak! Isn’t she taking proper care of you? VIVIEN! YOUR HUSBAND LOOKS LIKE DEATH! WHERE THE DEVIL ARE YOU?’
He is nothing like what I had expected. ‘Mr Lancaster—’ I croak, but he cuts me off.
‘Come, man, don’t insult me! No one calls me Mister Lancaster but the press and rich mothers looking to buy me for their daughters.’ (I wince.) ‘It won’t do—my sister’s in love with you, by Christ! Call me Ashley, or just Lancaster if you really must—that’s what they called me at school, before I quit.’
He has such a bluff, good-natured manner than I do not know what to do. I am struck by an overwhelming and entirely absurd desire for him to like me. ‘We have to talk,’ I say.
‘We are talking!’ cries this garrulous giant. ‘And it’s about time, too! Read all her letters on the boat back, and Christ, it’s Lionel this and Lionel that—I feel as though we spent the entire voyage together! Where IS she? VIVIEN! But listen,’ he says, leaning in conspiratorially so that our foreheads are almost touching. ‘As long as we’ve a moment alone, I wanted to thank you. God knows it isn’t easy being an older brother—but I forget, you know all about that! I’m sure it’s the same for you. I’m a pacifist—too much time in Tibet, ha ha ha!—but by God if the wrong man looked at Viv I’d rip his heart out and eat it raw.’ I blanch. He doesn’t notice, and continues. ‘But the way she talks about you, I know you treat her right. And it’s a load off my mind, by Christ, to know she’s found a good man who loves her the way she deserves to be loved!’
I am reeling. I do not know what he is talking about. Does he not know that Vivien and I hate each other? To what letters is he referring? What has Tibet to do with anything? Where did he come from? Why is he here? These thoughts chase each other through my brain, followed closely by wonderment that the papers were right about him after all. ‘Mr Lancaster—’ I begin, but am again cut off.
‘She’s not a frivolous woman, mind—she thinks things through. Never was impulsive, not even as a girl. Never even looked at a man that way—though not for lack of men looking at her, God knows! I never imagined she’d find anyone worth her. But the way she talks about you, Savage! I’m not a sentimental man, but damn me, I was moved. She respects you, you know. It’s more than just love—love’s fine, but it fades—but she respects you! And I wanted to— Well, Savage, I wanted to thank you. It’s a relief to know she’s in good hands. Now where the Devil is she?’ (Oh God.) ‘VIVIEN!’
I must read these letters. ‘Listen,’ I say, but he does not.
Instead, he says, ‘VIIIIIIVIENNNNNN!’ and several books fall from their shelves.
‘LISTEN TO ME, DAMN YOU!’ I shout.
He is brought up short, and for the first time since he entered the room he stops moving. ‘I say, I’m s
orry, old boy. What is it?’
‘She isn’t here.’
‘Well why didn’t you say so!’ he cries with a grin. ‘Popped out, eh? Well it’s been two years; another hour won’t hurt anything. Give us a chance to talk, what?’
‘Yes,’ I say, ‘quite. Well, you see—’
‘I envy you, Savage,’ says Lancaster, lying down on the sofa and stretching his long legs out before him with evident pleasure. ‘I wasn’t cut out for marriage; but damn me do I envy you. Do you know I haven’t even spoken to a woman in eighteen months? Not that I’m complaining, mind—in my profession a woman’s the kiss of death. Truth is, I don’t even look at women anymore. Think marriage would kill me. And you get used to bachelorhood. But all the same, in another life, God what I wouldn’t give for a soft pair of arms attached to a quick mind and an adventurous heart. Eh, but as I say, not for me! No, old boy, I don’t believe there’s a woman on this earth who could make me truly regret my freedom.’*
At that moment Lizzie comes into the room with a sparkle in her eyes. She says, ‘Nellie, I’m sorry, I’ve tried my utmost to be melancholy, but it’s no good: melancholia bores me.’ She notices my guest. ‘Hello, who are— Oh my God, you’re Ashley Lancaster.’ Roses bloom upon her cheeks and her breath comes a little quicker.
Lancaster, who has not taken his eyes off her since she entered the room, turns very pale, then very red, then very pale again. He tries to rise, becomes tangled in his own feet, sits down heavily, and rises again like a breaching whale. He is staring at Lizzie in a way I do not like. He opens and shuts his mouth several times, but doesn’t say anything. Finally he nods.
‘Nellie,’ says Lizzie to me with a disapproving look, still a little breathless but trying to pretend that she isn’t, ‘why didn’t you tell me we had company? Please forgive my brother, Mr Lancaster, he is at times shockingly impolite. I’m Elizabeth, and you don’t need to—’
‘Mr Lancaster and I were just—talking,’ I say with a significance which I hope Lizzie will notice and Lancaster will not.
‘Oh!’ says Lizzie, noticing. ‘Oh. Good. I’ll leave you to it, then. Mr Lancaster, it was a pleasure. I trust I’ll be seeing more of you.’
Lancaster still has not said a word. He nods again.
Lizzie sweeps out of the room. She casts one last glance upon him before she shuts the door behind her, and I feel uncomfortable having witnessed it.
As soon as the door is closed, Lancaster locates his tongue. ‘That’s your sister?’ he says with wonderment.
‘Yes,’ I reply tersely. I would like to move on to another subject—any subject—very quickly. But he is not finished.
‘She’s beautiful.’
‘We need to talk,’ I say.
‘You don’t mind my saying that, do you?’ I mind very much. The goodwill I feel toward the man has gone up in smoke. I wonder that I could ever have supposed him charming. The papers were hopelessly mistaken. He is a lascivious cad. ‘I have travelled, Savage—I mean, I have travelled. But I have never, never seen anyone— Good Lord.’
‘LANCASTER!’
He comes back to the present. ‘What?’
‘Vivien’s been abducted by the Dev’l.’ It is a gamble, but I have been trying to get the words out for ten minutes and I am through with subtlety. If he may ogle my sister I may sell his.
He looks confused and says, ‘By the what?’
‘The Dev’l.’
‘Once more?’
‘The Dev’l.’
‘I’m sorry, old boy, I don’t have any idea what you’re saying.’
I decide that this once it can perhaps be two syllables.
‘For God’s sake don’t ask how,’ I say, annunciating very clearly, ‘but your sister has been abducted by the Dev-ill.’
I expect him to explode, but he does not. Instead, he becomes very businesslike. His eyes, which have been wandering around my study vaguely, as if on reconnaissance, snap into sharp focus. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘the Devil. Wonderful. Yes, I see. How long ago?’
‘Fifteen hours, give or take.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Quite sure.’
‘The Devil?’
‘Yes.’ I am still waiting for the explosion. I wonder if perhaps he hasn’t quite understood. It is a bit of a shock, I suppose—the sort of thing which any man could be excused for not processing entirely.
He is musing almost to himself. ‘My sister has been— Really?’
‘Indeed.’
Suddenly, he smiles. ‘Poor chap,’ he says. ‘She’s a handful, as you know! Do you mind if I bring in my things? I’m going to be staying here for a few days.’ What is the matter with this man? Does he not understand plain English? Is he somehow demented? Perhaps he has ingested some tropical worm which has caused him to take leave of his senses.
‘You seem unperturbed,’ I say.
‘Why on earth should I be perturbed?’ he asks with what seems to be genuine curiosity.
‘Because your sister’s gone!’ I say. His lack of concern is increasing mine.
‘Gone?’ he says dismissively. ‘She isn’t gone, she’s just . . . missing. The Devil! Really?’
‘Yes, for God’s sake, the Devil!’
There is a glint in Lancaster’s eye I am not sure I like. It is the sort of glint I used to see in my mirror when I had found a poetical subject. I wonder what is going through his head, and if it is dangerous. He says almost mischievously, ‘Savage, this is a little bit exciting.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I cry.
‘Listen, old boy,’ says he. ‘There’s no problem without a solution. And luckily for us, this solution is particularly simple.’
‘It is?’ I say.
‘Of course! We just have to go get her!’
‘We what?’ I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this. Humans are continually surprising me today.
‘Come on Savage, show some spirit!’ he says. He seems almost bursting with happiness. ‘This is a great day! We’ve found ourselves an adventure!’ He pauses and looks at me, making sure I have understood fully the greatness of the day. I attempt to smile. I do not know what he means when he says that we have to go get her. How does one get someone back from the Devil? It does not sound like something I would be interested in, even if I had the slightest desire to get her back, which I have not. I am perfectly content with her absence. Or mostly content. Somewhat content, at the very least.
‘And you’re certain it was the Devil?’ he asks.
‘Quite certain.’ I say.
‘Extraordinary,’ he says.
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ I say absently. I am not really attending. I am wondering why it is that I do not feel more content—why I am, frankly, feeling rather wretched.
‘My God, man, you seem not to understand just how wonderful this all is. Is anything wrong?’
‘Oh, I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I suppose I’m waiting for the storm to hit.’
‘I don’t understand,’ says Lancaster.
‘Your little sister was just abducted by the Devil,’ I point out. I feel as though I am prodding an unexploded bomb—aware that it is an awful idea, but somehow fascinated by what the precise moment of explosion will look like.
Still it does not come. ‘Oh yes, yes, by all means. Don’t get me wrong, old boy, it’s perfectly dreadful what happened,’ he says, though he doesn’t sound full of dread. ‘Not very sporting of him, I daresay. But all the same, I can’t imagine any lasting harm will come of it, and it’s the most fantastic thing, by Christ!’
I am unclear how it is fantastic, but I say only, ‘Quite.’
‘And besides,’ ploughs on Lancaster merrily, ‘it’s hardly your fault!’ My gut wrenches. It is my fault. I do not say so, however. The man is clearly capable of crushing my head in one of his massive h
ands. ‘But come, you must tell me exactly what you said to one another. I’m terribly curious. The supernatural’s rather my area, you know.’
‘Oh?’ I did not know. It at least explains his morbid glee.
‘Surely Viv’s told you what I do.’
She has not. She could not have, for the simple reason that we never spoke. I do not know how to explain this to him, however, so I say instead, ‘Oh yes, she must have done. But then— You’ll have to excuse me if I . . . Be so good as to refresh me?’
He settles back onto the couch and becomes a storyteller. I suppose it must be a habit of his to pass time on long Arctic nights—in any event, it is clearly much practised. He stretches and clears his throat and says, ‘Well, I started with the Royal Geographical Society, of course. That was the beginning of it all—the first Tibet trip, the Peruvian debacle, the Greenland rambles. Surely you read about them?’
I have no idea what he is talking about. ‘Naturally,’ I say.
‘You didn’t read about them, did you?’
‘No.’
‘Well never mind, old boy. Don’t have to lie about it. No shame in a little ignorance now and again.’ I consider objecting, but he is already describing his trips and I cannot get a word in edgewise. ‘They were your standard expeditions: sunburn, frostbite, sleeping on rocks, maggots in your flesh, near starvation. You know.’
I do not know. How would I know? Why on earth would I have any notion? ‘Delightful,’ I say.
‘Oh, but it is!’ he exclaims. ‘You have no idea. Most wonderful thing in the world, travelling. What was I saying?’
I am not interested in his stories, but I am making mental notes on his person. He strikes me as a perfect specimen upon which to someday base a character. He is poetical in the extreme, and the creative part of my mind, which is most of it, considers ways I could utilise him. The trouble is, no reader would ever believe the almost godlike beauty of the man. It is as though light radiates from his skin. ‘The Geographical Society,’ I say.
‘Oh yes! Well, things were going along nicely until I found El Dorado.’
