Nightspawn (15 page)

‘Here you are, children.’

I wanted to do something to him, something violent. Rage was bubbling in my blood, a rage made unbearable because I could find no real cause of it. I would not speak for fear that my voice would choke me. Julian stood with his feet apart, hands stuck in his pockets, and surveyed us both with a merry eye. The fool, I thought, he suspects nothing.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘You both look glum. Had a nice weekend?’

Helena waved a hand toward the distant hills.

‘We went for a picnic yesterday.’

‘Oh yes? Very nice. How are the lessons going, Benjamin? Think the boy is a genius?’

‘Shit —’

‘Pardon —?’

‘It, ah, it’s going very well.’

‘Good, good.’

He drew up a chair and sat down before us, his big balls bulging in his overstuffed trousers, his hairy hands on his knees. I tried not to laugh. His trilby hat was now squashed flat under his arse. Helena fiddled with a pen on the desk. I looked through the window. Our moods had run down, like toy trains in need of winding, and we did not know what to do with each other. Had it been any other trio there in that moment of ease, they might have come to terms, resolved some tensions, offered some confessions, become friends at last; but not us. Helena was the first to drift away. She did so in stages, almost droopingly, from desk to chair (straighten a cushion), from chair to wall (straighten a picture), wall to door, to the hall, gone. Julian coughed. He was playing with a piece of paper, twisting it in his thick fingers.

‘Did I ever tell you about my mad Uncle Victor?’ he asked idly.

‘No.’

‘His passion in life was roller-skating. He bought a disused monastery in the Lake District, had the cloisters repaved with cork, and spent the rest of his life up there, gliding up and down the silent halls, dressed in a frock coat, top hat and yellow spats. A curious man. I cannot imagine why, but I’ve been thinking about him all day. Dear me. Life sometimes seems… terribly long, and the world a very grey institution, don’t you think?’

‘Yes.’

We looked down at the fountain. Julian said,

‘I think, you know, that you should leave Greece.’

He said it very casually, almost as though he were thinking of something else, and only now does his advice strike me as momentous. I asked,

‘Why?’

He did not answer, did not seem to have heard me. He glanced at the page from which Yacinth had read.

‘A bit advanced, eh?’ he murmured, and then pushed the book away and scratched his jaw.

‘Yacinth is advanced,’ I said.

‘I suppose he is. It’s strange, but I often think that I am completely lacking in … sensitivity, is that the word? No, not sensitivity, but … I don’t know … compassion, maybe? Uncle Victor taught me the value of such things, though, and I can appreciate them in others. I think you should …’

The subject dropped soundlessly down into the well of silence. I went away. Perhaps I was wrong, perhaps we did come to some kind of terms. As I was closing the door, I glanced back to see him rise and take up that flattened hat and hold it in his hands with a slow little smile of wonder and delight. Yes, Julian had his points, but I did not trust him, and I remember moving cautiously down the stairs for fear of stepping into something nasty.

The little shop stood wedged into a crevice of the little street, opposite the underground station. The books on display inside the grimy window were bleached to the bone. I pushed open the rickety door.
Bing,
said the bell, wagging its head. From the rear there came a rustling, as of tiny furry feet trampling old newspapers, and Rabin shuffled forward and peered at me. He was a tall gaunt ruin of a man in an ancient, shapeless black suit which bore a fine shine on the elbows and knees. His spectacles were held together at the bridge with a lump of dirty surgical tape. Doctor Hieronymous Rabin, professor of classical Greek
literature
, bookseller extraordinary, scholar of the ancient arts.

‘Oh, you,’ he said. ‘You are early today.’

He gave a humourless grin, displaying a horrendous set of yellow tusks.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t get away any sooner.’

A loud sniff.

‘So, busy you were, eh? How is Julian?’

‘He’s all right.’

‘And his dear wife?’

‘She’s fine, they’re both just fine. I’m giving lessons to Yacinth.’

‘That precocious child of theirs.’

‘He’s Hel— Mrs Kyd’s brother.’

‘Ah yes, of course. And would it be permitted to ask what kind of lessons you are giving him?’

‘English.’

‘I see. Hum.’

‘What did you think?’

‘Oh nothing, nothing. But I thought you might have some useful lessons to teach him from your long years in the university of life.’

‘I teach him English.’

In spite of his sarcasm, I think that Rabin really liked me. He shrugged, and stamped away to his desk at the back of the shop. I followed him. He opened his hands over a book lying before him on the desk, the bitter lines of his old face softening.

‘Is it not exquisite?’ he murmured. ‘I got it for, as you would say, a song.’

The book was indeed a beautiful thing. I left him alone with his love, and went behind the counter in front of the shop and sat down on my three-legged stool. The hours danced slowly away, and the sun reached its angle where, for five minutes, it sent a sliver of dusty yellow light plunging into the floor beside me. A few customers came and went, tourists for the most part, they came slowly and went hastily, and one of them bought a book, a nasty little edition of the Kama Sutra. The door had a habit of slamming of its own volition, and each time someone went out, Rabin would give a faint squeak of protest as the thunderclap disturbed his day. I punched the till, let the coins trickle in, closed the drawer, sat down. The hours began their minuet again. Rabin came forward and paused irresolutely beside a step-ladder which leaned against the shelves, then grasped the uprights and scaled it with surprising speed. His ascension was brought to an abrupt halt when his shaggy head struck the ceiling with a thump. He stood stock still, astonished, and then indignant. He caught sight of me grinning at him, and scowled.

‘By the way,’ he said. ‘Someone was asking for you this morning.’

‘Who?’

He searched through the shelves, muttering to himself, leaning dangerously sideward to follow his fingers where they trotted among the titles. He drew out an enormous, ancient volume and jammed it under his arm. Its dislodgement brought down a cloud of dust on his descending head. Down from the heady heights once more, he paused, bent slightly forward, while a hand scampered in panic from pocket to pocket of his shiny suit. Up came a dirty red handkerchief, transcribed an arc, and met, just in time, coming from his face, a
tremendous
, shattering sneeze. He wiped his nose, like a dog shaking a rat.

‘Who was it?’ I asked.

‘Eh? Oh yes, what was his name … Ten … Tinbean?’

‘Twinbein?’

‘Yes, that was it. Extraordinary name.’

‘A German, was he?’

‘No, English, most definitely. A consumptive with spectacles, a friend of yours?’

‘No.’

‘Well, he seemed eager to find you. I told him… (a sly smile) … that you were in bed… (a cackle)… ahem.’

He returned to his desk, tittering over his joke. It was rumoured that Rabin had a wife hidden away somewhere, by whom he had begotten an uncounted brood of children. Whenever I thought about that, I had a vision of a little army, clad in shiny black suits, marching across the city in single file, from toddler to octogenarian, each of them a replica of their father. It was an awesome image. The ancient telephone spoke. One could not say that it rang, for it had an oddly querulous, croaking call, like that of some awkward, ugly and sullen bird. Rabin answered it, jamming it against his ear and glaring down into the mouthpiece as though he could see there a tiny caller waving at him in urgent semaphore.

‘Yes yes,’ he snarled. ‘That is the number you called, is it not? Who? I cannot hear you. He is.’

The receiver, still gobbling, was thrust at me.

‘For you.’

‘Hello.’

A gloomy voice travelled its way through the wires.

‘Mr White?’

‘Yes.’

‘Colonel Sesosteris. Perhaps you could come to see me today?’

‘Well I —’

‘Good. My address. In an hour? Goodbye.’

Click.
I had not thought that Aristotle could be so capable. I went down to where Rabin sat again by his desk.

‘Ahm … Doctor?’

‘Well?’

‘Can I have an hour off?’

He sat back on the chair and stared at me glumly. I could never win those staring contests of which Rabin was so fond. He was an old hand. When I had dropped my eyes, and was pawing
at the floor with the toe of my sandal, he said sweetly,

‘Just one hour? The whole day, why don’t you take? The whole week? And tell me, what have you to do with this man Sesosteris?’

That was a surprise.

‘How did you?… I just know him. He’s a friend of a friend of mine.’

‘I suppose Weiss is involved? All right, don’t tell me, so it is no business of mine. But you should be careful.’

‘Why?’

‘You know why.’

‘Do I?’

‘One hour.’

‘And a half?’

‘Take the day, take the week, go on, go.’

I was halfway down the street when he came to the door and called me back. I retraced my steps.

‘Yes?’

‘I am going to have that telephone taken away,’ he growled, then turned, went into the shop, and slammed the door behind him. Inside, the little bell had hysterics.

My chronology is all wrong. No matter.

The house was old and shabby, colourless, with a minimum of furniture, square chairs, tables scratched and stained,
fingermarks
on the doors. In the room where I stood, wondering… all kinds of things, a pile of yellowed newspapers were wedged under a punctured couch, and a plate of spaghetti was slowly dying on the top of a bookcase. Aristotle entered. I had the impression that he was poured through the door, he was so pale and silent.

‘Mr White,’ he said. ‘Sit down. Would you like a drink? No? Just as well, I am not sure if there is anything in the house. I am sorry to have called you here so suddenly. But please sit down —no, not there. The leg, you see, has come off, ha ha. Take this chair.’

I took that chair. Which was not too sure of its legs either. His opening speech finished, Aristotle was at something of a loss. He clasped his hands, unclasped them, made an effort to smile, thought better of it, and suddenly sat down. We faced each other now across the cluttered top of a coffee table. Aristotle breathed heavily through his nose. A window framed a sunlit view of a stretch of road, a mudguard and one punctured wheel of a car, and, farther down the street, a man with an excited dog romping at his heels. I cleared my throat, and the noise knocked echoes from the walls.

‘I suppose you know why you are here?’ said Aristotle.

‘No.’

He nodded absently. His fretful gaze shifted, and he stood up.

‘Come outside,’ he said. ‘It’s cooler.’

But in the garden there was little coolness. The sun came raging down on the lawn, an uneven stretch of dry dust dotted with disconsolate tufts of grass, and nothing was still in the upward flowing ripples of heat. A broken deck chair lay on its side below the verandah, and in the grass two empty beer bottles leaned drunkenly neck to neck. But in the centre of that wasted place a long, deep swimming pool was cut, with a gleaming steel ladder, a brand new diving board; it lacked nothing, except water. In the deep end, a lizard was dying among brown leaves already dead. The little creature made regular, feeble efforts to scale the pale blue tiles. I think I could hear the painful rasp of its claws on the smooth enamel. Aristotle’s shoulders drooped. He looked around the garden and murmured,

‘My house is in ruins.’

‘There was in his voice another, smaller voice which said, I can take no more, treat me gently, for I am ready to break. He spent some time assembling a chair which wished to remain folded. We sat and looked at the pitted concrete wall behind the
pool. Aristotle said,

‘It will be very sad about Julian.’

I did not reply to what seems to have been a question. He glanced at me, with the faintest touch of reproof.

‘Do you not think it will be very sad, Mr White?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything. I don’t know him all that well.’

‘Oh. I thought you were an old friend.’

‘No.’

‘Do you know what I’m talking about?’

‘No.’

‘You have heard nothing about his factories?’

‘No.’

‘I wish you would not lie to me, Mr White. There is no need.’

‘No.’

There came a silence then, and we listened to the metallic chorus of the cicadas. I put my hand to the top of my head. My hair was hot to the touch. I had a strange, not unpleasant floating sensation, as though I were surrounded by thick warm fluid. The air was like placenta. To go on saying no, that lovely little moan, seemed enough to separate me from anything and everything of import. A sound came from the house, the slamming of a door, and Aristotle turned and peered through the windows which we had left standing open. No one appeared there, and, with a little sigh, he turned back again, and yawned.

‘Chill in the air,’ he said.

I lit a cigarette. As I released the first breath of smoke, I felt Aristotle’s eyes upon me hungrily.

‘Do you want one?’

‘I am forbidden to smoke now.’

There was a world of woe in his voice. I tried to blow the smoke away from him, but a sadistic breeze insisted on carrying it to his nose. He coughed, and mumbled,

‘What was I saying? Ah yes. A whale.’

‘Pardon?’

He turned to me suddenly, his hands clutching his knees.

‘I think I will take a cigarette, Mr White.’

He lit it with a trembling fist, and sucked greedily at the gay coils of smoke. He smiled. His mouth smiled.

‘The whale,’ he said. ‘I once read somewhere that whales are really very gentle animals. Frail even, in their way. It’s strange, for such an enormous beast, although I don’t see why. Perhaps their size … I don’t know. The sharks could kill them, it seems, but the whales act as bait. Shoals of tiny fishes swim in their wake, and the sharks feed on them. So, with the peculiar wisdom of unthinking things, they know better than to take one large meal in place of a constant promise of sufficiency.’