L'Affaire (15 page)

Mr Trevor Osworthy had been unsettled and shocked by Posy’s news that Rupert Venn had been asked to lend himself to an unsavory scheme to open Venn’s safe-deposit box without express instructions from its owner, or even the owner’s wife, and was even more alarmed to hear of the interference of a shady French businessman. It was worrying to hear that this person had authorization to open the box, and it unsettled the whole foundation of the orderly processes that could be expected to ensue when a person died, if Venn were to die. Even three whiskies in the bar of the Hôtel Croix St Bernard didn’t prevent him from lying awake, brooding, and, eventually, forming a resolution.

His first move, after breakfast, was to go directly to the hospital, without Posy and before Rupert’s return, to see for himself the medical situation. He thus arrived early, during the ward rounds. ‘Don’t mind me,
ne me regardez pas,
’ he assured the surprised doctors. The covers were unmounded, and Mrs Venn’s form lay in its yellow hospital gown tied with strings, so short Mr Osworthy was obliged to avert his eyes, before being shooed out of the room anyway. He had never met the new Mrs Venn, and had to say that her reputed freshness and charm were far from apparent. Bluish stalk legs sticking from under a smelly, crinkled garment, hair of an indeterminate color
clotted to a damp head, tubes. Through the oval window of the door, from the hall Osworthy could see the doctors tickling her foot while another pair, like a team of torturers, shone a light in her eye. When the doctors moved on to another bed, Osworthy charged in again and moved to the bedside of a thing that must be Venn, poor devil, a being of a terrible color, plastic tubes coming out of his nose and mouth, and a great many more attached to his wrists, ankles, and, from its location, to his genitals, painful thought.

‘Venn, good Lord,’ Osworthy murmured. Pam Venn had been right to ask him to come, even though she wasn’t directly interested. Osworthy knew how Venn had left things, and it wasn’t to Pam. A lovely woman, Pam Venn, he had always thought, and he hadn’t been fully in sympathy with some of the harsh measures Adrian had been capable of suggesting to overcome her disinclination to divorce.

Now, however, it was plain that the first thing to be done was to get the man to England, in the hope of saving his life.

When Posy, with some disgust when she thought about Rupert’s having now got out of two days of bedside sitting (reproaching herself for such thoughts), arrived at the hospital armed with her book and packet of cigarettes, she found a fracas in progress. The doctor was wildly addressing and, it seemed, denouncing, Mr Osworthy, in the presence of Father’s inert form, shouting over the wheezing din of the machines. Osworthy drew Posy into the discussion without delay.

‘I’m telling the man we want to transfer him immediately.
I’ve spoken to London and the medical evacuation people. It’s a tricky business, but luckily his insurance will pay; it seems he took the ski insurance, I’m damned suprised.’

‘London?’ Posy stared at Father’s apparatus, the imposing size of the life-giving machines.

‘I must say, Posy, it should have been obvious to Rupert – to you, for that matter – that he should have been evacuated two days ago. This hospital – look around you! It can hardly be equipped with all that’s needed, there’s been no consultant – the French could have proposed a consultant, it’s unimaginable they didn’t…’ He ranted on in this style. The doctor, appearing to find in Posy the hope of someone who would listen to reason, turned to her and switched from excited French into English, explaining the reasons why it would be dangerous folly to move her father, all was being done that could possibly be done, the facilities didn’t exist on any known plane to transport someone on life support.

‘This is not Saudi Arabia, mademoiselle, we do not have intensive care units on planes.’

‘We want to do the right thing,’ she said uncertainly.

‘The man will never survive the trip, we are doing everything humanly possible right here. It is not rocket science, the man is nearly dead, we can only –’

‘You must try to arrange it. Whatever happens –’ said Osworthy.

‘But the danger, the expense…?’

‘Whatever happens, he would want to be in England,’ said Osworthy, and Posy didn’t actually see that she could argue with that.

‘I have said, there is no plane with an intensive unit, no one would take a patient in this condition –’

‘Or an equipped ambulance,’ Osworthy insisted. ‘I will look into it. If we can get him to the Brompton Hospital. I know the consultants there.’

‘And what about Madame Venn? And will all the children agree?’ said the doctor.

‘Agree? Why should they object?’

‘Well, to die in England and to die in France – it is two different things, evidently,’ said the doctor.

This was not evident to Posy nor, at first, to Mr Osworthy. They were stopped, they reflected.

‘The point is, he should not die,’ said Osworthy with great assurance. ‘I’ll go the hotel. When do we expect Rupert, Posy?’

Posy sat a little while longer with Father, half persuaded by Mr Osworthy that maybe English medicine would have an answer, and shocked at herself for not having looked into it, she who was usually able to see the practical side of things. How she wished for Rupert, if only to berate him for leaving her to deal with all this. She wondered if Father weren’t a little worse today, a bluish cast to his skin, dark blotches under his eyes that hadn’t been there yesterday.

She had found a photograph of him, stuck in her book; she had clipped it from a newspaper a few months ago. Father is attending a publishers’ meeting with a member of a trade commission representing book manufacturers in Brussels, to oppose a projected tariff on books in stock, in the warehouse, or on publishers’ shelves. While others in the photo seem animated, or are simulating animated
discussion, Father stares blankly at the photographer, not seeking the approval of the camera but uninvolved in what is going on around him, distanced or shadowed by something in the future or distracted by some memory. Posy had seen other photographs like this, of other people, who would die soon after. If it were in color, it might show the aura of death, if you believed in auras. At the time, they had said with some malice, ‘Looks like his life with Kerry isn’t a bed of roses.’

She was shaken, and as she sat throughout the morning her dismay worsened, thinking that their easy acquiescence to the decision to probably pull the plug one of these days, their acceptance of the doctor’s dictum, made this bedside vigil a kind of act of bad faith, of hypocrisy. Here she was hoping for him to get better and at the same time planning his death instead of actively soliciting his recovery. She tried to force her mind around to a hope he could recover, this emotion in turn warring with her real vengeful feeling that he had brought all this on himself, silly bloke, with his girl-wife and a dozen other birds before, giving all that trouble to them all and especially to Mother.

From time to time during these boring vigils, Posy allowed herself to dream of a vast inheritance. She knew Father wasn’t rich like that, of course, this was just a reverie. With the vast inheritence she could say sod the bras and knickers boutique and could open something of her own, dealing in old paisley shawls and steamer trunks, say, or get a job as a researcher at the BBC, which would pay nothing, but you met everybody and it led to something. Or just do nothing and buy a house to fix up. Of
course she knew that her share of whatever Father had would not, ever, add up to an independent income, but she would invest wisely…

Eventually she went back to the hotel. Dr Lamm had approached her one more time before she left, saying with Gallic certitude, ‘It is futile to move your father, it is wrong, and it is impossible.’

The day was snowing and dark, so most of the skiers had come in or had stayed in, and were taking lunch at the hotel. Rupert got back from Saint-Gond as it was being served, and joined Posy and Osworthy at their table. Posy had just been pointing out Kip and baby Harry sitting nearby, with the American heiress, or such was the rumor about her that Posy had heard in the bar. Osworthy turned from his study of Kip and Harry to greet Rupert, delighted to see Rupert, a responsible male Venn.

‘I feel I must speak frankly, now that you’re here, Rupert. I was quite surprised to hear what you were off doing. It could have the appearance of crime. You wouldn’t want it to look like you were helping yourself.’

‘I suppose not,’ said Rupert, ‘but it seems to be commonly done here.’

‘Important to avoid getting implicated in something like that. I think you should know, too, if your father dies, you don’t come in for much – something, of course. You, too, Posy. The bulk of his estate goes to his wife, naturally enough. Nothing abnormal in that.’

‘We know that, or we expected it, anyhow.’

‘What did you actually find in the safe-deposit box?’

‘Pretty much what we’d been told: some gold coins, a small painting signed by Bonnard, old books, some
jewelry. The
notaire
took everything out and we locked it in his office safe. He wrote out a receipt for me. I couldn’t tell if any of it had any value, but he seemed relieved the French tax people wouldn’t get their hands on it.’

‘I am sure there is a penalty for hiding things from the fiscal authorities. How long the arms of the French fiscal authorities are I couldn’t say,’ said Osworthy, his sniff suggesting his contempt for the sleazy local practices, opening private safe-deposit boxes, secreting funds. He rose.

‘I’ll just go over and have a look at young Harry, present myself, it looks like he’s in charge, the older boy I mean. He’s the brother of Mrs Venn? Who are the women? He may need some help with a baby that young. Posy, did you offer to help?’

‘God, no,’ mouthed Posy to Mr Osworthy’s back.

‘To tell the truth,’ Rupert told Posy, ‘when I saw Father’s stuff, it wrenched me in a way his situation hadn’t yet. There was a sort of presence to his things – you sensed the person who had chosen them, cared for them, loved these old books – or I guess he loved them. He valued them, anyhow, paid for them, put them away. He had thoughts and hopes – do you know what I mean? Suddenly in the midst of having thoughts, he’s lying like a vegetable. It was like looking at his diary or his clothes. It made me hope all the more that he’ll live. I hope he does, and I hope he won’t be too frosted that we got into his box.’

Approaching their table, Mr Osworthy presented himself to Kip and Amy. ‘Adrian Venn’s solicitor. Came in last
night. I take it this is Harry? What a fine fellow. I’d heard a lot about him from Adrian – apple of his eye, you know.’

Kip started politely to rise, but was pushed back into his chair by the friendly paw of Osworthy.

‘This is Kip Canby, Harry’s uncle,’ Amy said. ‘I’m Amy Hawkins, a friend of Kip’s, and this is Miss, I mean Mademoiselle Walther, who helps with Harry.’ The Jaffes had found a teenager from the village, to be supervised by the hotel’s own chambermaid Tamara, and Kip would only have to look after the baby at night. Amy had told Christian Jaffe she would pay for it, it was little enough that she could do, though it occurred to her that it was really this man’s obligation, if he was the family lawyer.

‘Hello, Harry,’ said Osworthy, patting the baby’s head. ‘You’ve got Harry organized, I see, Kip. I just wanted to tell you how things stand. We think Harry’s father has a greater chance if we get him to England. I’ve decided to remove him to the Brompton Hospital in London if all goes well. They have expert teams for these things. Well known – all the sheiks and mullahs come right to England. Apparently it’s complicated, aerial transport with respirators and so on, but it can be done. I’ll be working on it this afternoon.’

Kip heard this in amazement and with relief, followed immediately by a new fear. It was probably good they were planning to take Adrian to a bigger hospital, but what about Kerry, and what about him, and Harry?

‘What about Kerry?’ he asked.

‘They say she’s doing a bit better, so we’ll concentrate on Venn for the moment. I think the doctor would say there was no point in taking the risks involved in transport
where the situation is not desperate.’ Osworthy’s voice had the falsely soothing tones of a school psychologist. Kip didn’t buy it. Despite what the doctors said, he couldn’t see that Kerry was any better at all, didn’t she need saving by the Brompton Hospital too? He glanced at Amy. She was the only person he had talked about all this to, plus she seemed to know about the law. He liked the idea of them all going to England where he could talk to people in English.

Osworthy invited Kip to come to his suite before dinner tonight. ‘You too, madam, if you like. I should have some news by then. Bring everyone involved,’ he added in the authoritative voice of someone who is finally getting the bunglers organized. He nodded and went back to his table.

Kip looked across the room at Emile Abboud. Though he came to the hospital meetings, Kip didn’t know how Mr Abboud was involved exactly, or whether he should be told about Mr Osworthy’s meeting. Abboud was reading the paper by the windows, apparently waiting for his soup. Kip didn’t really think he himself should go to Mr Osworthy’s meeting, either, it was more about Adrian. As usual, no one talked about Kerry.

‘As long as your sister’s doing okay, it might be better to leave her as she is,’ Amy said, agreeing with Osworthy. ‘It’s probably complicated to arrange moving someone in intensive care.’

‘They say she’s doing okay, but she hasn’t changed at all that I can see,’ Kip said. ‘She just lies there.’ He heard his voice quaver.

On the other hand, Amy thought, with her practical
concerns, it was possible these English people were trying to run out on Kip’s sister’s care, or planning to abandon her in some way, leaving Kip to make decisions and pay the bills. She promised Kip to have a frank talk with Mr Osworthy about some of these issues.

Mr Osworthy’s voice almost shook with his outrage as he sat down again at his table. ‘You didn’t tell me, Posy, that the American boy had hired counsel, surely that wasn’t necessary? I’m certainly acting in the interests of everyone concerned, especially the baby; after all, he’s Adrian’s principle heir, with his mother, so I hardly think…’