Temporary Kings (29 page)

‘Am
I right in thinking “kara” has some implication of blackness? The former
Serbian royal house, Karageorgevitch, was not that founded by Black George? But
‘‘mazov “? How would that be translated into English?’

My
Russian neighbour laughed. He seemed very willing that a Dostoevskian
commentary should move into etymological channels, away from potentially
political ones. The idea of giving The Brothers an English surname pleased him.

‘I
shall consult a colleague.’

He
spoke quickly in his own language across the table. There was a short
discussion. He returned to me.

‘He
says “kara” means “black” in Turkish. There is a Russian adjective “chernomazy”
– do you say “swarthy”? Then “maz”, it is “grease”, the verb, to smear or to
oil. Would that be “varnish” in English?’

Dr
Brightman, sitting next to the informant on the other side of the table, was
not to be left out of a discussion of this nature. She showed interest at once.

‘
The
Brothers Blackvarnish
? No, that would
hardly do, I think. We must find something better than that.’

She
shook her head, giving the matter her full attention.

‘How would
The Blacklacquer Brothers
be?’

We
discussed the question. While we did so, I reflected how this was all based on
Trapnel’s meditation on the meaning of the name, his argument with Bagshaw in
that dreary pub came back, Trapnel’s contention that there was no such thing as
Naturalism in novel writing, one of his favourite themes.

‘Reading
novels needs almost as much talent as writing them,’ he used to say.

The
occasion had been just before Bagshaw and I had taken him home, on the way
found that Pamela had thrown his manuscript into the Regent Canal. Trapnel had
said something else that evening too. Now the words came back, in the way
spoken words do, with quite a new meaning.

‘Call
Hemingway’s impotent good guy naturalistic? Think of what
Dostoevsky would
have made of him? After all, Dostoevsky did deal
with an impotent good guy in love
with a bitch.’

Was
that the answer? Was he a good guy? Was he in love? Was the condition only
released by Death? The train of thought was interrupted by Dr Brightman
offering a new suggestion.

‘Simply
making use of the connexion with linseed oil –
The
Linseed Brothers
?’

‘That
omits the element of blackness, of darkness, which obviously broods over the
story, and must be conveyed by the name.’

When
it was time to thank for the party, leave, Truscott, who was by then talking
with the Ambassador, gave a smile that indicated he had hopes of the very worst
for Widmerpool. Coming down the steps of the Embassy, I found myself with the
Quiggins. We walked along Kensington Palace Gardens together, moving south
towards the High Street. I asked Ada if any progress had been made in deciding
what was to be Glober’s last great film.

‘Do
you mean to say you don’t know? Louis is coming over next month. Everything is
arranged.’

‘What’s
it to be?’

‘
Match
Me Such Marvel
, of course. I’m sure it’s going to
make a box-office record. I can’t wait.’

‘So
Trapnel’s off?’

Ada
showed more pity than astonishment.

‘Trapnel?’

‘Glober
was going to do a Trapnel film when we were in Venice. Probably a kind of life
of Trapnel, with Pamela Widmerpool in the lead. You’d only just begun to make
St John Clarke propaganda with him.’

‘He
saw at once the St John Clarke novel was a much better idea.’

‘Is
Pamela equally happy?’

Quiggin
cut in.

‘I’m
bored to death with this film of Glober’s. I don’t believe we’re really going
to make any money out of it, even if he does it. You never know with these
people. Set against Ada’s time writing her own novels, or working in the firm,
I’ve always doubted whether it’s worth while.’

‘Oh,
shut up,’ said Ada.

She
turned to me again.

‘Do
you really not know about Louis deciding on another girl for his leading lady,
as well as ditching the Trapnel idea? That was all settled months ago.’

‘Glober
found Pamela too much in the end?’

‘He
fell for someone else.’

Quiggin
continued to show irritation about the film.

‘Do
let’s discuss another subject. The food at lunch wasn’t too bad. I’m never sure
Caucasian wine suits me. I thought he seemed rather a sulky little man, when I
had a word with him through the interpreter.

‘Who’s
Glober fallen for now?’

‘Why,
Polly Duport, of course. You must live absolutely out of the world not to know
that. He saw her in the Hardy film at the Venice Festival. She turned up there
herself. It was an instantaneous click.’

‘Didn’t
that cause trouble?’

‘With
Pam?’

‘Yes.’

‘I
don’t think Pam really cared by then, even if she cared much before. She was
already mad about that other American, what was he called – Russell Gwinnett.
She still is. Haven’t you heard about what happened at the Bagshaws’?’

‘I
know about that, more or less, but not about Polly Duport.’

‘You
remember how horrid Pam was to me in Venice, considering what friends we’d
been. She’s been ringing me up almost daily lately, trying to find out what’s
become of Gwinnett. How should I know? I barely met him. The most I did was to
ask for us to be allowed to consider his book on X. Trapnel, when it’s
finished.’

This
upset Quiggin again.

‘A
book on X. Trapnel is never going to sell. Why get us involved in it at all. It
would only mean more money down the drain.’

‘So
any question of Pamela marrying Glober is at an end?’

‘Why
should she marry Glober?’

‘You
said he wanted to marry her – not just have an affair with her.’

‘I
did?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m
sure I didn’t. Anyway, if I did, I shouldn’t have done so. Forget about it. Of
course, it’s all off. How could it be anything else? Louis’s terribly sweet and
kind, but you never know what he’s going to do next.’

‘That’s
just what I’ve already stated,’ said Quiggin.

‘All
film people go on like that. Never mind. I do think he really is keen on
Match Me Such Marvel
. Of course it’s not going
to be called that. We haven’t decided on the best tide yet. Polly is a
marvellous girl too. Not only glamorous, but a real professional.’

‘What
I can’t believe is Pamela making no row.*

‘Even
Pam realized she’d never get the part once Louis began taking Polly out to
dinner.’

‘Did
Pamela meet Polly Duport?’

‘I
didn’t think so. The Widmerpools went back to England halfway through the Film
Festival. It was Pam’s thing about Gwinnett, as much as anything else, that
caused Louis to give her up. It serves Pam right. I believe she really did
think she was going to become famous.*

‘Why
did Glober object so much? Gwinnett was positively running away from the
situation, so far as anything Glober might object to. He still is. Even in the
early stages, he only wanted Trapnel information.’

‘Louis
didn’t think so. Anyway there was Pam. Perhaps it was because he was another
American.’

‘Is
Glober going to marry Polly Duport now?’

‘Isn’t
she married already, to an actor, though they’re living apart? She was on her
own when she came to Venice. Perhaps he will.’

‘What
does Widmerpool think about it all? His feelings don’t seem to have been
considered much, whether Pam leaves him or stays. Your idea was that he would
be quite glad to get her taken off his hands. Now, if he goes to prison for
spying, she’ll be able to visit him in the Scrubs or Dartmoor, wherever he’s
sent – give him additional hell.’

Quiggin
was outraged.

‘You
think that a matter to joke about?’

‘Isn’t
that what it looks like?’

‘That
Parliamentary Question was disgraceful. Our own particular form of McCarthyism.
All very gentlemanly, of course, none the less smearingly vindictive.’

‘You
think he’ll emerge without a stain on his character?’

Quiggin
was prepared to be less severe on that point. ‘Haven’t we all sins to forgive?
Sins of over-enthusiasm, I mean. Look, Ada, there’s our bus.’

Each recriminative
decade poses new riddles, how best to live, how best
to write. One’s fifties, in principle less acceptable than one’s forties, at
least confirm most worst suspicions about life, thereby disposing of an
appreciable tract of vain expectation, standardized fantasy, obstructive to
writing, as to living. The quinquagenarian may not be master of himself, he is,
notwithstanding, master of a passable miscellany of experience on which to draw
when forming opinions, distorted or the reverse, at least up to a point his
own. After passing the half-century, one unavoidable conclusion is that many
things seeming incredible on starting out, are, in fact, by no means to be located
in an area beyond belief. The ‘Widmerpool case’ fell into that category. It
remained enigmatic so far as the public were concerned. People who liked to
regard themselves as ‘in the know’ were not much better off, one rumour
contradicting another, what exactly Widmerpool had done to put himself in such
an awkward spot remaining undefined. One extraneous item came my own way,
which, as purely negative evidence, could have been added to material sifted by
whatever official body was undertaking an enquiry. It was expressed in the form
of a picture postcard of the Doge’s Palace.

‘Have
to date heard nothing from your friend about blocks. Weather here good. D. McN.
T.’

That,
at least, indicated none of the disaster, threatening Widmerpool on account of
Dr Belkin’s absence from the Conference, had resulted in Tokenhouse suffering
comparable repercussions. I had intended to ask the Quiggins about the blocks
for the Cubist series, when walking with them after luncheon at the Soviet
Embassy. More personally engrossing matters had intervened. The blocks remained
forgotten. I sent Tokenhouse a postcard of Nelson’s Column, saying (in army
parlance) the matter would be looked into, a report forwarded.

In
early summer, Isobel and I went by chance to a musical party organized by Rosie
and Odo Stevens. It was a charity affair, our inclusion nothing to do with the
meeting in Venice. In fact, the people who brought us knew the Stevenses hardly
at all. I make this point to emphasize that guests present at this particular
entertainment were not handpicked. No doubt everyone who received an
invitation, in the first instance, was an acquaintance of some sort. Beyond
such intermediaries stretched a relatively anonymous conflux of persons, whose
passport to the house lay only in willingness to buy a ticket. Had things been
otherwise, the evening might have turned out differently; possibly not certain
other events that followed.

The
Stevens house in Regent’s Park, not large by the standards of Rosie’s parents,
though done up inside with a touch of the old Manasch resplendence, had room
for a marquee to be built out on to a flat roof at the back to create an
improvised auditorium, accommodating a respectable number of persons. Rosie had
inherited two or three very acceptable pictures, and pieces of furniture, which
Hugo Tolland, speaking from an antique dealer’s point of view, regarded with
respect. He had sold her two French commodes from his own shop, so they had not
been acquired cheaply. Offering this sort of show for a charitable purpose was,
on Rosie’s part, a pious memento of the days when Sir Herbert and Lady Manasch,
great patrons of the arts, had mounted similar projects. Stevens himself,
claiming musical enthusiasms, as well as a strong taste for parties, may on
this occasion have been at least as responsible as his wife. The ‘good cause’
was connected with one or more of the emergent African countries; the piece to
be performed, Mozart’s
Die Entführung aus
dent Serail
– the ‘
Seraglio
’.
The price of a ticket included supper after the opera had been performed.

Like
the Soviet luncheon party – some of the same guests – there was a distinctly
political flavour about the people collected, before the performance, in the
Stevens drawing-room, MPs from both sides of the house, some African diplomatic
representatives. This time the musical world, Rosie always maintaining links
there, took the place of writers. Many of those present were unknown to myself.
I recognized a Tory Cabinet Minister, and a female member of the Labour Shadow Cabinet,
from pictures in the press. The music critic, Gossage, and Norman Chandler, who
directed now, rather than dancing or acting, had come together. Gossage, a
trifle more dried up and toothy than formerly, had exchanged his former
pince-nez for rimless spectacles. His little moustache had gone white.
Chandler, slightly filled out from the skeletal thinness of his younger days,
retained a marionette-like appearance, a marionette now of a certain age.
Living in one of the Ted Jeavons flats, Chandler had developed into rather a
crony of Jeavons. They used to watch television together.

‘Don’t
think there’s much fear I’ll be suspected,’ Jeavons said. ‘All the same, you
never know what people will say behind your back.’

On
arrival, Isobel had paused to talk with Rosie, who had been a former friend of
Molly Jeavons. Moving through the crowd, I came on Audrey Maclintick. She
announced the unforeseen fact that Moreland had advised on the
Seraglio
’s production. Quite apart from his poor
health, that was unexpected. Moreland had always set his face against charity
performances, although there had been occasions in the past when he had been
more or less forced to take part in them. Audrey Maclintick agreed their
presence was unlooked for. She added that it was not at all the sort of party
she was used to. She had said just the same thing when Mrs Foxe had given a
party for Moreland’s Symphony, more than twenty years before. She herself was
not much altered from then, even to the extent of still wearing a version,
modified into a more contemporary style, of the dress which, at Mrs Foxe’s, had
caused Stringham to address her as ‘Little Bo-Peep.’