I’d made up my mind to tell her I knew Marco, and to try to get her side of the story. But it was no easier in the flesh than on the phone. I prevaricated, asking what she was doing with herself these days. She told me about a charitable organization she’d joined, which raised money for refugees. In a roundabout way she led me to understand that she was one of the public faces of this organization, and although she spoke of the role in a self-deprecating tone, I got the feeling she was proud of it.
“The way I see it, if I can turn the tiny bit of fame I once had to good use, then why not do it? I like being useful to other people. I wish I’d learned that about myself earlier on in life . . .”
Images of her from the past continued surfacing in my mind as she talked, blooming and dispersing. I remembered reaching to lift a wire for her on a country walk in my teens, not realizing it was electrified, my yelp of shock prompting a peal of laughter from her, followed by an unexpected touch on my shoulder of magical tenderness and sympathy. I remembered the party at our house where my mother first introduced her to that young American, Ralph Pommeroy, and the expressions on their faces as they circled each other in those first moments; Ralph’s a little stunned as if he thought he might be dreaming, Julia’s mirthful, with that air of being deep in some private revel while at the same time alertly conscious of her own effect.
“And you?” she said. “What have you been doing all these years?”
I told her about my life in America: writing, teaching, living out in the woods with my family.
“How romantic!”
“It was nice.”
“Was? It’s over?”
“No, but the kids have left.”
“Ah.”
She crossed her legs and tilted her head back a little, the broad planes of her cheeks catching the waning daylight from the balcony window. She was still striking to look at; beautiful by any measure, with her handsome head like something sculpted for a Roman fountain. And in fact I’d listed attributes of certain goddesses in the notes I’d made, copying out lines from Homer on Athena’s daylight-sharpening powers, her “slate-flecked silver eyes,” as well as a passage about Artemis from Camille Paglia: “Artemis is pre-Christian purity without spirituality . . . She has nerve, fire, arrogance, force . . . She is pristine. She never learns. In her blankness and coldness, she is a perfect selfhood, a sublime energy.”
“Tell me about your wife . . .” she said.
I don’t think she was remotely interested in Caitlin, but the act of making me talk about her seemed to remind her of an aspect of herself that hadn’t been called into play until then. A look of sidelong amusement came on like a light in her eyes. She nodded occasionally as I talked, but didn’t offer any comment when I finished. A car went by below the balcony window, sizzling on the wet. Lights glittered in a distant, solitary tower block, as if signaling to us. It was still raining.
“Shall we move on to something stronger?” she asked as I trailed off into silence. “Whisky? A glass of wine?”
“Some wine would be nice.”
She took the tea things into the kitchen. From the back, sheathed in the soft fabric of her dress, she looked like a woman in her thirties. I found myself trying to decide what I thought of her: what I, in my older self, thought of her in hers. Julia as flight from nature, I’d written in those notes; abandonment of the old, animal, earthbound human archetype . . . Elsewhere: The world becomes clarified in her presence but also diminished, as if digitized, immolated in a cold fire . . . Was that “cold fire” still burning? If so, did it still exert any lingering fascination over me? I reminded myself I was there to investigate Marco’s story, not to revive some ancient plotline in my own. And yet the question asked itself: Was I still susceptible to her in any way? I wanted the answer to be yes. One doesn’t like to lose the capacity for enchantment.
She came back with the wine, and pulled her chair closer to mine, touching my glass with hers.
“I do remember you,” she said. “I remember hearing you play your electric guitar up in your room. Your parents used to groan whenever it came on, but I enjoyed it.” She leaned confidentially toward me. “In fact I sometimes wished I could go up there and hang out with you. I’m sure you’d have rolled me a nice fat joint if I asked.”
“I’m sure I would!”
She smiled.
“I seem to remember there was a Hendrix song you used to play rather beautifully . . .”
“Little Wing?”
“That’s right! One of my favorites!”
I was stunned. I thought I’d long ago raked over every last ember of memory having to do with my teenage crush on Julia, but somehow I’d forgotten the little sonic bouquets I used to send down the three flights of stairs from my bedroom whenever she arrived at our house. I’d taught myself the intricate fingering of that song specifically for the purpose of impressing her.
“You know, I met Noel Redding once,” she said. “I had a thing for musicians in those days. I’d never say no to a party where there was a chance of a real live rock star making an appearance.”
“Didn’t you once get a chant going at a Blind Faith concert?”
“You’ve heard that story?”
“You were up a tree, in the version I heard.”
“It’s true!” She laughed, putting her hand on my arm. “With Francesca Leeto. Is that who you heard it from?”
“Yes.” The Leetos were family friends. “I was collecting anecdotes for a novel about my parents’ world.”
“A novel? How wonderful! Was I in it?”
“There was a character somewhat based on you.”
“Really?”
“Well . . . you were a part of that world. A big part, for a while.”
“I’m flattered! Or were you going to make me into one of those twisted characters no one likes?”
“Of course not—you were highly sympathetic!”
She looked pleased—more pleased than my flippant answer seemed to warrant. Clearing her throat, she asked:
“How did I end up? Happy, I hope, and extremely rich!”
“Oh, I didn’t get that far. But I’m sure you would have.”
Her flecked gray eyes widened for an instant, searching mine. It struck me, as it never had in the past, that she was insecure—that it actually mattered to her how, to what precise purpose, someone who called himself a writer might adapt her existence for the purposes of a story.
“Well, it must be fun to make up stories about real people,” she said, resuming her poised air. “You can make them do whatever you want, can’t you? Fall in love, inherit a fortune, become a Buddhist or a junkie or god knows what . . . I’d like to end up in a nice little cottage in the Cotswolds, if you do write your book, with hollyhocks and plum trees and two or three handsome farmers for lovers, preferably with wives they have to get home to before daybreak.”
“I’ll arrange it.”
“Ha! And interesting friends like you to come and visit, of course.”
“Of course.”
She gave a contented sigh. I got the sense of an impressionable spirit—more susceptible to things than I’d imagined.
“And what was your role in all this going to be?” she asked. “One of those detached observers like what’s-his-name in the Powell books?”
“Nicholas Jenkins.”
“Yes, Nicholas Jenkins. I always found him rather cold and dull. I hope you weren’t going to portray yourself like that.”
“Actually I think I was.”
“No! It wouldn’t be accurate. You’re a lot more fun.”
“Well, I’m glad you think so.”
She narrowed her eyes in a look of mock provocation.
“And would I still be able to make you blush?”
I was enjoying the flirtatious tack she’d taken, but even as I laughed and tried to think of a suitably suave reply, something—some confusion, or irritation with myself—flared inside me.
“Listen, Julia, I’ve be
en wanting to tell you,” I heard myself say, the words tumbling out in a sudden, clumsy, headlong rush, “I’m a friend of Marco’s. Marco Rosedale. I see quite a lot of him in New York.”
7
IT SEEMS EVEN CLUMSIER NOW, that declaration, than it did at the time. Brutal, almost. But then in hindsight practically everything I said seems tinged with brutality.
The effect on Julia was instant and extreme. She seemed to recoil from me, physically flinching back into her chair, all the little nuanced tensions of amusement on her face slackening at once, giving way to a look of hurt shock, followed by anger.
“Is that why you’re here?”
“No.”
“Did he send you?”
“No.”
“He sent you, didn’t he?”
“No. I’m here because you invited me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew him?”
“I’ve been wanting to. Ever since you called. It’s just—not the easiest thing in the world to bring up.”
“What isn’t?”
“Well . . . the whole story.”
She gave me a hard stare.
“You’ve heard it then.”
“Parts of it. His side, obviously.”
“What does he say?”
“Well, mainly that he didn’t, you know . . .”
“Rape me?”
I nodded. She looked down, her lips moving for a moment without sound.
“What I’d like to know,” she said, raising her head again, “is why the fuck, in that case, he thinks I’m saying he did?”
I’d decided by then that I was going to be absolutely frank. I felt guilty for not having told her right away that I knew Marco, and it seemed to me I owed her a full account of everything he and I had discussed. More pragmatically, I also sensed I was as close to the heart of the story as I was ever likely to get, and that in my role as its custodian, so to speak, I ought to do whatever I could to keep pushing forward. Frankness on my part, it seemed to me, would be as good a method as any to provoke frankness on hers.
“He has a few theories,” I said.
“Such as?”
I looked at her as levelly as I could.
“Money, principally.”
She breathed in, long and slow. I saw a muscle clench in her jaw.
“Money?”
“He seems to think you . . . you’re in a position of needing to make money.”
She gave a mirthless smile.
“Well, it’s true. I am. Who isn’t? Not him I suppose, with his money-bags father behind him. Anyway, so what?”
“That’s why he thinks you wrote that thing,” I said. “Or one of the reasons.”
She closed her eyes, shaking her head slowly.
“Yes, okay, money. I need to make it, just like everyone else. I wrote a memoir, which by the way is mostly not about Marco Rosedale, though I’m sure he thinks it’s all about him. It’s about the same world as your book, by the sound of it, only it isn’t made up. I didn’t write it for money, I wrote it in an effort to get myself out of a deep emotional and professional rut. But I certainly hoped to get a decent sum for publishing it. I showed it to the Messenger and they offered me what would have been a year’s rent on this place just for that little bit about Marco. I was surprised it interested them, frankly. I mean, who cares about Marco Rosedale? And it’s not as if his behavior was so unusual either. Half the men in London were like that—I said as much in the piece. Still, I’d have been happy to take the money if the Messenger hadn’t been so pathetically afraid of upsetting him.”
“You think they should have ignored that letter?” I asked.
“What letter?”
It hadn’t occurred to me that she might not have been told about Gerald’s letter. I braced myself.
“Well . . . Marco found a letter from your boyfriend at the time.”
“What boyfriend?”
“Gerald Woolley.”
“Oh, god! He found a letter from Gerald Woolley?”
“Yes.”
“To me?”
“No, to him. Marco. He showed it to the guy at the Messenger. Mel Sauer. That’s what changed their mind.”
“Gerald wrote a letter to Marco?”
I nodded.
“When? Recently?”
“No. At the time of your . . . thing with Marco.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake! Saying what?”
“Asking to meet him. You’d told Gerald about your—your feelings for Marco, and he wanted to talk it over with Marco, man-to-man, I guess.”
“You’re joking!”
“The letter quoted things you said about Marco.”
“What things?”
“Well . . . very complimentary things.”
“Not possible.”
“Calling him an exceptional human being, exceptionally decent . . .”
“Not possible!”
“He showed me a picture of it. Apparently it was sent just after the Belfast program was broadcast. So after, you know, the night in question.”
I was trying to get it all out as quickly and straightforwardly as possible, to spare her any unnecessary anguish. But from the waves of pain registering on her face, it appeared my responses were striking her like something more in the nature of poisoned arrows than the simple expedient frankness I was intending.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “Gerald and Marco held a meeting to decide who I belonged to and now Marco’s using the letter to try to prove I’m a liar—is that what you’re telling me?”
“Well, they didn’t actually meet. Marco never answered the letter. And to be fair to Gerald, he did acknowledge you were free to do whatever you wanted.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I know. Very ahead of his time.”
“How come Mel Sauer never mentioned any of this to me?”
“I have no idea. What did he tell you?”
She shrugged. “Something about Marco being more aggrieved than they’d expected, even after I toned it down, and the story not being a big enough deal to be worth a legal fight. I didn’t question him because it confirmed what I thought anyway, though it made me furious that Marco thought he had any right to be aggrieved. That was actually when I first twigged that I’d written something important. I mean, I knew it was somewhat titillating, but I’d imagined people would just read it as a funny sketch of seventies sexual habits, which is how I’d thought of it myself. I didn’t think of it as anything serious. Not till they tried to stop me publishing it.”
She refilled her wine glass, gesturing at the bottle to indicate I could help myself, which I did. Her hand shook a little as she raised the glass to her lips. She narrowed her eyes suddenly.
“I see! So that’s why Renata Shenker changed her mind, too! She told me it was because she couldn’t deal with all the cease and desist letters Alec Rosedale was firing at her. Apparently he was going to force her into bankruptcy. But they must have shown her Gerald’s letter. Yes. I see now. Dragged her into their nasty little cabal. That’s the real reason why she pulled out. Very interesting. Very interesting.”
“Well, no actually,” I said, realizing I was going to have to break another unpleasant piece of news to her. “It was something different in her case.”
“What?”
I fortified myself with a large sip of wine.
“I think it was some correspondence about a book you wanted to write. On a German aviator.”
“Hanna Reitsch?”
“Yes. They got hold of your proposal, along with the report from the original publishers’ reader—a friend of yours, I believe.”
“Andrea Merton? Not that she’s still a friend of mine, by the way. But go on.”
“That’s what they showed Renata. That’s why she backed out.”
Julia looked even more bewildered than before.
“I’m confused. What on earth could that book proposal possibly have to do with . . . anything?”
I
did my best to explain. It all sounded a bit far-fetched. Julia was looking increasingly agitated. She stood up before I’d finished, and began pacing about, biting at a nail.
“So Renata Shenker thinks I’m some kind of Nazi sympathizer? That’s why she pulled out?”
“I don’t know what she thinks.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t think you’re a Nazi sympathizer. For what it’s worth, I don’t think Marco does either. But the way he sees it he’s fighting for his reputation—”
“Fuck him!”
“I mean, I think you were trying to praise the woman for not being a hypocrite, but I could see how someone might take it the wrong way. Especially the widow of a camp survivor.”
“Oh, rubbish! You’d have to be a lunatic to think I was in any way sympathizing with her political beliefs. She went to prison for them, rightly, obviously, but then built a new life for herself. That’s what interested me about her. I was interested in people who’ve had to start afresh in life. I’d done a whole series of articles on second acts. The book proposal came directly out of those.”
“I didn’t know that. Marco only read me the parts where you seemed to be praising her for not recanting her National Socialist principles.”
She flung up a hand.
“Of course I wasn’t praising her.”
“Also for calling Germany a land of bankers.”
“God almighty!”
“I mean, to be fair, even your friend, or former friend, seemed to find it strange. She said in her report she thought you might have gone off the deep end.”
“Andrea?”
“If that’s—”
Afternoon of a Faun Page 9
