The Avignon Quintet (62 page)

But she was right.

And looking at her, watching her smiling at him, a simple thought came into his mind, namely how marvellous not to be blind! Livia said: “Who is this S you are always quoting?” So she had been reading his exercise books behind his back! He answered “Schopenhauer” without a flicker of expression. But in the back of his mind was already looming a large fleshy man with pink knees pressed together, penis
en trompe-l’oeil
as he might say, whirling dumb-bells before an open window. The original Sutcliffe who was to keep his emotions in a high state of chaos; one of those novelists all out of shape from too frequent childbearing. Perhaps he was a poet? Yes, he wrote verses. Some had been published in
Isis
. He would send some to Livia in order to bolster her faith in him as a creative person. She had taught him several yoga
asanas
and now every morning he obediently performed them while he thought of her sitting somewhere out among the olives beyond the tower in the lotus pose which seemed to cost her no effort at all, intoning the Aum; or lying in the corpse posture, snuffing out her whole will and body, and by her meditation “swallowing the sky”. He was rather afraid that all this was very much a fad, though he admitted to feeling better after it.

It was by these strange byways and unfrequented paths that years later he was able to track down that corpulent soak, that ignoble ape, Sutcliffe, whose vulpine quivering nose reddened at the approach of whisky, and whose shaggy body rejoiced to feel the warm thrust of alcohol in the nerves. Where did this extraordinary
alter ego
come from? He was never to discover.

Livia was looking at him curiously – a snake with a trigger in its tongue, a cat with afterthoughts.…

And now Felix Chatto came up the drive on a derelict bicycle and brought them an invitation from Lord Galen; it was for a farewell dinner before he took his own departure for Berlin. It would be agony to squeeze their swollen feet into socks and shoes, to unearth shirts and ties.… But they could not refuse the old man. Anyway it would be a good training for their return to the city after this bemusing Provençal holiday.

FIVE

Lord Galen Dines

W
HEN I WAS A BOY
”,
SAID LORD GALEN WITH A
massive simplicity, “I read a book called
The Romance of Steam
and I have never forgotten it. It had a red and gold cover with an engine on it and it began, “The steam-engine is a mighty power for Good.” Nobody could tell if he were joking or not. He fell into a muse and pulled his upper lip. Max the chauffeur, now transformed into something between a major-domo and an Italian admiral by a costume specially created for him, diligently carved the roast chickens in their chafing dishes before serving them. His black dress-trousers had a broad gold piping, and in the lapels of his dress coat he carried the insignia of a
sommelier
– a master of Cellars. It was he who had trundled up to fetch five young people in the Hispano, and they had been very grateful for the lift, for the walk was a long and dusty one from Tu Duc.

The house Galen owned and occupied sporadically throughout the year was as characteristic as the old man himself – it had been built quite recently by a Greek armaments king with whom he had business dealings; one old tower was all that was left of the original chateau which had stood on the site. All the rest had been rased to clear the ground for the modern villa – architecture of calamitous joviality – which, however, stood in handsome shady gardens. “Nothing old-fashioned does for me,” said the old man forcibly; adding, “I have never drunk life through a straw, you know.” Jutting out his chin.

The original name of the house had been “The Acropolis”, but Lord Galen, with characteristic Jewish modesty, had renamed it “Balmoral”; the large painted board which announced the fact always gave Felix Chatto a twinge of horror as he turned into the drive – his taste had been educated to a very high pitch of refinement. The inside of the house also caused him pain by its exuberance; it was the kind of house that a successful but ignorant actress might order in Cairo. Masses of marquetry and leather and cretonne; the salon was raised on pillars so convoluted and painted that they resembled barbers’ poles of the old style. It was wonderfully modern and slightly profligate in atmosphere. And on this particular evening they found a new visitor present who seemed to belong to it, to be most appropriate to the satin and damascene and scarlet leather. They had none of them met the Prince before, nor even heard of him; but it soon transpired that though he was an Egyptian prince of the blood he was also a business associate of old Galen. His presence lent a singular and appropriate touch to all this oriental décor for he wore dove-grey clothes, and dove-grey London spats over tiny boots polished like mirrors. His grey waistcoat sported pearl buttons, and he wore a stock which set off to admiration a lean and aquiline face which was almost as grey as the rest of him. In his lapel he wore a gold squirrel, on his finger a scarab ring.

Lord Galen performed the presentation with just the slightest trace of unction, adding afterwards, “Prince Hassad is an old business associate of mine.” The Prince seemed extraordinarily meek, he ducked shyly as he shook hands; his hands were small, bird-like, twiggy, and he seemed glad to reclaim them after every action. Beside him on a chair lay a richly chased fly-whisk and a gorgeous fez with gold tassels of great lustre; the green band indicated not only his royal antecedents but also the fact that he had made the traditional pilgrimage to Mecca. At first blush it seemed that what was striking about him rested on the fact that his dress was exotic, his person foreign. But within a few moments the impression changed; they felt they were in the presence of some sort of oriental saint who sat so modestly but vividly before them, his face bowed, looking shyly up under his brows as he gazed from face to young face. His English was almost perfect, his French without a trace of a foreign accent or intonation. If ever the fact was commented upon the Prince was apt to say, smiling: “I learned both languages young. There is nothing else to do in the Royal harem but study.”

“Champagne,” said Galen with a lordly wave and there was a suggestive popping among the rock plants in the winter garden where the dumb secretary presided over a cocktail cabinet; and what a treat it was in all that summer thirst! The Prince sipped a glass and placed it beside him on the table; he was much reassured by the fact that they all talked French as well as English.

Constance, of course, won his immediate attention and admiration by her smiling good sense and swift French; it was to her that he chiefly addressed himself in order to explain himself and expound his habits to all of them – aware perhaps that he must seem a story-tale figure in the French countryside. “I am travelling north into Germany in my carriage, and Lord Galen is coming with me to transact some business on behalf of Egypt.” Galen looked rather doubtful about this; he had offered to drive north in his elegant car, but the Prince had quietly insisted on the huge state landau with its four horses – a desperately slow method of getting about. He had also expressed a somewhat alarming wish, namely to visit a cathedral or two on the way north – a sentiment that Lord Galen found slightly morbid. But the little Prince was proposing to enjoy himself as a deeply civilised oriental should do when abroad, and there was nothing for it but to fall in with his wishes. But at night, in bed, Lord Galen gave a groan when he thought of their slow progress across Europe in this royal contraption. At the moment it reposed in his garage where the two uniformed black Saidhis were currying the horses and watering them.

Needless to say, the Prince made an instant hit with the inhabitants of Tu Duc, though hardly less markedly with Chatto and the taciturn Quatrefages who had put on a tie for the occasion and whose flushed face suggested that he had perhaps had a drink or two to stimulate his courage for such a frightening occasion. Perhaps the Prince sensed this, for he at once paid the boy some special attentions, questioning him softly in his patrician French, and soon the clerk was quite at ease and sufficiently self-confident to venture on talking in an English which was not bad despite his marked accent. So the exchange of politenesses proceeded until Max with a grunt announced that they could come to table if they wished. The Prince put down his gold-tipped cigarette and asked permission to wash his hands; his body-servant, a tall Nubian clad in the scarlet sash of the royal
kavass
, helped him, holding the towels for him to wipe his hands on, and then sprinkling the royal fingers with scent at the end of the operation. The Prince dabbled some scent on his face also. Then he came modestly to table, where they all stood and waited for him; Lord Galen placed him between the two sisters which seemed to please him very much as he instantly engaged Constance once more in small talk.

From the kitchen came the clatter and chatter of the three young farm women who had been conscripted for this fête by the secretary; he himself took his meals apart in the study. “Every year”, said Lord Galen happily, “I have this little beano as a farewell treat before leaving France. But it’s the first time I have welcomed the Prince to my table.” He beamed round him while Prince Hassad with his shy smile made a little self-deprecating
moue
of the lips, as if the allusion embarrassed him. “I am glad to be here,” he said, and added: “particularly because of the work you are doing on your romantic project, in which I find it very hard to believe. We Egyptians are very suspicious people.”

“Quite right. Quite right,” said Galen with approval, “but our little project is not all fancy, you know. We have certain definite lines of enquiry laid down. This treasure is not a will o’ the wisp, eh Quatrefages?”

The Prince shook his head doubtfully. “As an investment?” he murmured, almost under his breath. He motioned to his servant, who had taken up his traditional food-taster’s position behind his chair, to leave. It was as if he did not wish for an eavesdropper in the room in case the conversation became confidential. He looked prudently round the table and said: “Perhaps after dinner I could be given some facts about your search. Then I will be able to judge.” Then, turning aside with a more definite air, he asked Livia to tell him what monuments he should see in the vicinity, and in her usual forceful way she offered to be his guide if he should so wish, at which he looked hesitant but grateful. “There is so much to see,” said Lord Galen with a regretful sigh, “but I never seem to have the chance.” The grotesque cat of the household which lay on its velvet cushion in the corner of the room gave a croak. It had smelt the chicken. Lord Galen regally cut a piece from his own portion and had it despatched to her by Max who got a serpentine hiss for his efforts. For such a frail-looking man the Prince was surprisingly adroit with knife and fork, and was soon deeply involved with second helpings and vegetables which he forked on to his side-plate, preferring to eat in the French fashion – to enjoy meat and vegetables separately. Nor did he neglect his glass of Tavel, which he held up to the light with a professional expression of appreciation, to admire its topaz glow. “Though a Moslem,” he confided in his host, “I am anything but a fanatic. But I never overdo things in case my wife catches me.” He gave a small sweet chuckle and lowered his eyes again.

“Of course,” said Lord Galen soothingly, “to drink a little – it’s all harmless jollity.” Quatrefages had been taciturn and talkative by turns, had been flushed and pale also; Felix knew him well enough to decipher these indications. They betrayed that he had been drinking absinthe again; it made him fiery and apathetic by turns. Now he produced his little pendulum from his vest pocket and allowed it to swing over his glass of wine for a moment. Everyone watched him with interest, as if he were about to do a conjuring trick. But no. After a moment of intense study he put away his divining instrument and drained his glass, giving an involuntary belch as he did so. They all smiled indulgently but he gazed about him with a bloodshot eye and made a sign for Max to refill his glass, which the butler did, but not without an anxious glance in the direction of his boss.

Lord Galen was talking, however, and had not noticed this small diversion. He was talking about the pleasures of Germany, of the pleasant journey they were soon to enjoy together. “Pleasant and I hope profitable,” he added. “The brothers Krupp will come in their special train into Austria and we shall become good friends, yes, very good friends.” An emotional man, he felt the tears of friendship rising to his eyes. It was to be a most meaningful meeting, he assured the Prince. The Nubians would get what they wanted cheap because of his other interests. Felix whispered an aside to Blanford: “He doesn’t seem to know what is going on over there.” If Quatrefages divined by the pendulum, Felix divined by the stock pages of the
Financial Times
. The sinister drift of events in Germany had been an object of his concerned study for some time; why, even the Foreign Office Intels had been showing diplomatic unease about the situation – and here was Galen blithely chatting about financial speculations and business interests for all the world as if the country was stable and productive, and in a fit state to welcome foreign investment.