Temporary Kings (13 page)

Shernmaker
had been malicious about Ada, too, in days of her first appearance as a
novelist, though latterly, having in general somewhat lost his critical nerve,
allowing her from time to time temperate praise. Some explained this unfriendly
tone by rejected advances, at the period when Ada was new to London, and
certainly Shernmaker remained always insistent that, in spite of marriage, Ada’s
emotional interests lay chiefly with her own sex. There may have been some truth
in this assertion. If so, that had not prevented her from giving birth to twins
soon after marriage to Quiggin, their identical, almost laughable, resemblance
to their father scotching another of Shernmaker’s disobliging innuendos. Quiggin
did not by now at all mind his wife being a better known figure than himself.
The sales of her books may even have played some part in his own evolvement,
after Clapham’s death, as chairman of the firm. In the delicate role – compared
by Evadne Clapham to a troika – of publisher, husband, critic, Quiggin had
judged his wife’s first book,
I Stopped at a Chemist
(a tolerable film as
Sally Goes Shopping
), too short
commercially. In consequence of this advice, Ada had written two long novels
about domestic life, which threatened literary doldrums. She had extracted
herself with
Bedsores
and
The Bitch Pack Meets on Wednesday
, since these never
looked back as a successful writer. Ada’s personality – what Members called her
‘petits soins’ – played a considerable part, too, in the Quiggins’ notorious
literary dinner parties.

As
they advanced into the Tiepolo room, Shuckerly made for Dr Brightman, Ada for
Pamela. She seemed very surprised to find her old friend in the Bragadin
palace. As Ada passed him, Glober shot out an appraising glance, reminiscent of
those Peter Templer used to give ladies he did not know, Glober’s all-inclusive
survey suggesting recognition of Ada’s valuable qualities, additional to her
good looks. Always a shade on the plump side (even when she had worked for
Sillery), she was no thinner, but carried herself well, retaining that air of
bright, blonde, efficient, self-possessed secretary, who knows the whereabouts
of everything required in a properly run office, much too sensible to allow
more than just the right minimum of flirtatious behaviour to pervade business
hours. No doubt Ada had learnt a lot from contact with Sillery. At the
ninetieth birthday celebrations mentioned by Dr Brightman, the names of both
the Quiggins had appeared as present, Quiggin himself reported as having
delivered one of the many speeches.

Ada
hurried up to Pamela, and embraced her warmly. It looked as if they had not met
for some time. Pamela’s reception of this greeting was less obviously approving
of reunion, though her accustomed coldness of manner was not to be constructed
as pointer in one direction more than another. Ten years ago they had been on
good terms. Since then they might well have quarrelled, moved apart, made
friends again, never ceased to be friends. It was impossible to judge from
outward signs. Pamela allowed herself to be kissed. She made no attempt to
return the ardent flow of words from Ada that followed. No such display of
sentiment was to be expected, even if Ada could claim, in the past, to have
been Pamela’s sole female friend and confidante. No doubt mere acceptance of
Ada’s continued devotion confirmed no rift had taken place.

‘Pam,
what are you doing here? You’re the last person I’d expected to see. You can’t
be a member of the Conference?’

Pamela
made a face of disgust at the thought.

‘What
are you doing then?’

‘I’m
staying here.’

‘In
the Palazzo – with Mr Bragadin?’

‘Of
course.’

‘Both
of you?’

Ada
allowed too much unconcealed curiosity to echo in that question for Pamela’s
taste. Her face hardened. She began to frown. As it turned out, that seemed
more from contempt for Ada’s crude inquisitiveness, than from displeasure at
what she wanted to know. Whatever Pamela’s feelings about her husband, she was
not prepared to plunge into the heart-to-heart talk about him which Ada’s
question posed. Ada’s tone sounded as if she too had heard Pamela’s name
connected with the Ferrand-Sénéschal affair. It was more than a conventional
enquiry to a wife about her husband. The conventional assumption would in any
case have been that Pamela was not accompanied by Widmerpool. Ada was no doubt
dying to learn how he was taking this new scandal involving his wife’s name;
Pamela, perfectly grasping what her friend was after, not at all inclined,
there and then, to make a present of the latest news. Instead, she gave Ada a
look, hard, understanding, half-threatening, which declared for the present a
policy of adjournment in relation to more exciting items.

‘He’s
arriving today.’

‘In
Venice?’

‘Yes.’

This
manner of stating Widmerpool’s movements recalled the habit of referring always
to ‘him’, rather than using a name. Ada’s question was at least answered.

‘That
awful night-flight? I was a wreck when I arrived at four in the morning.’

Pamela
laughed derisively.

‘He
wasn’t man enough to take the night-flight this time. He’s on a plane as far as
Milan, from there by train.’

Ada
was persistent.

‘Is
he feeling worried then?’

‘Why
should he be?’

‘I
don’t know. I just wondered. He always has such a lot on his plate, as he
himself always says. I must congratulate him on becoming a lord – and you too,
darling.’

‘Oh,
that?’

‘Aren’t
you pleased?’

Pamela
did not bother to answer.

‘I’m
longing for a talk.’

Pamela
did not answer that either. She began to frown again. It did not look as if she
herself were longing for a talk at all. Her bearing suggested quite the
contrary. In spite of such discouragement, Ada rattled on. She was, after all,
used to Pamela and her ways. An affection of simplicity was simply part of Ada’s
tactic. She judged, probably rightly, that even if Pamela’s prevailing aspect
did not at present show a good disposition towards old acquaintance, that could
in due course be overcome.

‘How
long are you both staying in Venice?’

‘I
don’t know.’

‘I’ve
a story I must tell you.’

Ada
lowered her voice. Gwinnett, finished with the Longhis, had proceeded on to
examination of the Tiepolo. He was moving steadily in our direction. At any
moment now opportunity would be offered for putting him in touch with Pamela.
Obligation to effect an introduction, so that he could relate her to his work
on Trapnel, was not to be ignored. On the other hand, was this the right
moment? From Gwinnett’s point of view the risk was considerable. Head-on
presentation might – almost certainly would – result in one of Pamela’s sudden
capricious antagonisms, possibly aversion so keen that all further enquiry in
her direction would be at an end. Nevertheless, in whatever manner Gwinnett
were to approach her, that eventuality had to be faced. There was no way of
guarding against their temperaments proving mutually antipathetic. This was as
good a chance as likely to occur. In the case of flat refusal to cooperate, he
would have to do the best he could. To bring them together in this neutral
spot, even if Gwinnett did not, here and now, speak of Trapnel – an awkward
subject to broach in the first few seconds after introduction – circumstances
would at least allow him to absorb something of Pamela’s personality, useful
material for his book he might never secure again, if opportunity were missed.
Before I could make up my mind how best to act, Glober, left on his own by Ada’s
monopoly of Pamela, Shuckerly’s of Dr Brightman, began to speak of the ceiling
again.

‘The
way the painter’s contrived to illuminate those locations of dark pigmentation
is just great. Dwell on that multi-coloured luminosity of cloud effect. To
think I spent twenty-four hours in Jacky’s Palazzo before stepping over to
gaze.’

Continuous
companionship, with the conversation that brought, was necessary to Glober all
the time. His manner made one feel even momentary isolation of himself required
ending instantly, if he were not to risk grave nervous strain. His words
postponed need for decision about bringing together Gwinnett and Pamela.
Gwinnett himself came up at that moment, and started off an enquiry of his own.

‘Do
you know the legend depicted up there? It’s not familiar to me.’

Glober,
recognizing another American, but taking charge probably more from instinct to
speak authoritatively, than because a fellow-countryman had asked the question,
stepped in with an answer.

‘We’ve
just been told the story by Dr Brightman. It’s a great one.’

He
preceded to recapitulate, briefly and proficiently. Gwinnett listened with
attention. I did not know whether he recognized Glober, nor, if so, whether he
wanted to meet him. His own vague manner almost suggested unawareness that
Glober and I had been talking together; that nothing was further from his mind
than that Glober should reply to his question. At the same time, one never
quite knew with Gwinnett; what he was thinking, how he would behave. That his
action in approaching us at that moment was deliberate, premeditated, could not
be entirely ruled out.

‘Thanks
a lot. That’s an interesting story.’

Gwinnett
evidently meant what he said. Although I was aware of hazards incident on
introducing to each other nationals of the same country (Americans not least),
without carefully reconnoitring the ground, no alternative was offered. I spoke
their names, coupled with that of the college where Gwinnett taught English. He
smiled faintly when this was done, but with an impassivity that gave nothing
away, least of all any hint that he was already conversant with Glober’s
reputation. If interested in making this encounter, Gwinnett did not show it,
holding his cards to his chest in a manner, to the popular European view, ‘un-American’.
Anyway, it was in contrast with Glober’s exuberance, intact from younger days,
tempered with that unnoisy manner which so well suited him. There was nothing in
the least forced about Glober’s friendliness, none of that sense of inadequacy
sometimes noticeable after a gushing approach has lacked basic vitality to
sustain its first impact. Glober possessed that inner strength. When he caught
Gwinnett’s two hands, the gesture managed to be warm, amusing, not at all
reckless or overdone.

‘One
of the rarest signatures too,’ he said.

Although
he spoke in that quiet way, he might just as well have shouted, from the punch
he put into this piece of banter, for, even if complimentary, banter was what
it turned out to be. At the time, the bearing was obscure to me, unconnected
with Dr Brightman’s reference to the surname’s link with a ‘Signer’ family;
though I noted inwardly the odd coincidence of Gwinnett himself speaking
ironically of Glober being ‘able to sign his name’. The conjunction of phrase,
a mere chance, made Gwinnett’s reply seem the more enigmatic. Later, I wondered
whether, in fact, he ever signed his own name without thinking of his ancestor.
That was not impossible. At the moment he appeared a little put out, laughing
in a deprecatory manner, as he tried to withdraw his fingers from Glober’s
grip.

‘I
take care my own signature’s a rare one too,’ he said. ‘Anyway on cheques.’

There
was a touch of reproof in this rather knockabout rejoinder. Gwinnett was
probably flattered too. How much flattered was hard to assess, the incident not
immediately explicable, its implications only subsequently revealed. Gwinnett
was in any case, so it seemed to me, too good an American to persist, after all
that, in his earlier, more distant air; to make absolutely unambiguous a
preference for different, less overpowering, modes of address between
strangers. There was no question of ‘putting Glober in his place’, an
inclination that might easily have emerged in England from a personality of
Gwinnett’s type. At the same time, to the extent of showing the smallest spark
of exuberance himself, he did not at all retreat from his own chosen position,
just keeping a dead level of civility, to which exception could not possibly be
taken.

In
due course, Dr Brightman explained that, among endorsements of the Declaration
of Independence, Button Gwinnett’s signature happened to be much prized among
collectors purposing to possess an example of each. In Gwinnett’s light
dismissal, as an individual, of Glober’s commendatory teasing, in quite another
form, something was reminiscent of Pamela’s neutralization of Ada’s
affectionate embrace. Neutralization was the process Gwinnett’s manner often
called to mind. Pamela’s exterior, to the uninformed observer, could have been
interpreted as hostile. No hostility was present in Gwinnett’s reply, just
unspoken announcement of another way of life. If that were hostility, it was to
be detected by only the most delicate instrument. Glober himself showed not the
smallest awareness of even that antithesis. Constitutionally habituated, simply
as a man, to being liked by people, he could have become insensitive to
antipathy, unless explicit; alternatively, so intensely conscious of any
attitude towards himself short of total surrender, that he was conditioned
utterly to conceal any such awareness.

The
dissimilarities of these two Americans seemed to put them into almost every
direct opposition in relation to one another: Gwinnett, much the younger, a
disturbed background, chancy fortunes, a small but appreciable stake in
American history: Glober, of mature age, easy manner, worldly success, recent –
not necessarily easy – family origins. One thought of the gladiator with the
sword and shield; the one with the net and trident. No doubt gladiators too had
in common the typical characteristics of their trade, and something bound
Gwinnett and Glober together, perhaps merely their ‘Americanness’. One
struggled for a phrase to define this characteristic in common, if indeed it
existed. An appropriate term warbled across the room from the lips of Quentin
Shuckerly.