The Finishing School (8 page)

15

There was a small sitting room at the back of College Sunrise, looking out on a leafy garden, which was generally used by the school’s small staff, mainly Albert Hertz the lovely garden boy, Elaine Valette and her sister, Célestine, Chris’s midnight lover. They met at tea and coffee breaks for a chat and a pause, and this afternoon they were joined by Claire Denis, the daily maid. Claire’s apparently formidable task of cleaning and washing up was considerably lightened by the apperance, once a month, of a housecleaning team from Geneva, and the fact that the students were obliged to tidy up their rooms. Even so, Claire worked hard.

Their working hard was today partly the theme of the four who were gathered for tea and an understandable discussion of how they stood or would stand at College Sunrise when the new school year should begin in late January next. There was also the question of where the school would be located, since it was, by its foundation, free and mobile. Would their jobs be safe? Did they, individually, want the jobs to be safe?

As usual, the staff knew more about the crisis at the management end than Rowland and Nina or any of the students suspected.

Albert said, “The lease runs out at the end of the year, but if they don’t renew it someone else will take on the house. I like the garden, it’s small but I’ve made it mine.”

“The marriage is finished,” said Célestine. “Nina stays late with Israel Brown, and Rowland, wouldn’t you know, is making for me. Would you believe it . . . his jealousy of Chris. And he thinks I’ll sleep with him instead of Chris, some hope.”

“Are you that fond of Chris?” said Claire.

“Oh yes, of course,” said Célestine, “and he’s got a great future. The publisher’s arriving tomorrow. Rowland could kill him. I won’t leave Rowland alone in my kitchen in case he puts poison in the food and kills us all to take Chris with us.”

“I wouldn’t exaggerate,” said her sister. “But I wonder what Chris will do when the school breaks up? You won’t see him again.”

“I’d like a job in the hotel,” Célestine said.

“I’m thinking of a tourist bureau in Geneva,” said Elaine.

Claire said, “I think of some sort of tragedy. Pallas’s father has been arrested for smuggling a stolen picture. Israel’s aunt Giovanna spotted it in a friend’s gallery. They get to know everything in that world.”

Albert said, “Nina’s hoping the school’s name will be famous through Chris’s success. Put up the fees. But if it gets known about the picture . . . a small El Greco, if it’s real, worth fifteen.”

“Fifteen what?” said Claire.

“Million dollars.”

“But Chris,” said Célestine, “helped Pallas to smuggle it out of Switzerland. It was in the hothouse with the tomatoes for a few weeks. Very bad for the paint.”

“And all the other students are so sweet,” said Elaine. “I love Lionel, he’s serious, Leg’s fun, Tilly’s rather a bitch but, well, she’s Tilly. Lisa, Joan, Mary, especially Mary, who adores Rowland—they’re charming. And Opal’s going to be a woman priest, how long will that last?”

“Maybe I’ll marry Opal,” said Albert. “She grows on me.”

“The parents will be looking for a match, a
bon parti
.”

“I will marry her while the parents are still looking.” It was understood by all present that Albert had already made headway with Opal.

“I can always get a domestic job,” said Claire, “but if Nina doesn’t keep me on, I’ll miss the school. —Albert, will you take your feet off the coffee table?”

“Will you travel?” said Célestine.

“Oh, yes.”

“Rowland won’t go,” said Célestine. “They are bound to part.”

The prospective publisher of Chris’s novel checked in next day at the nearby hotel. Before Chris went to meet him he invited Rowland to accompany him.

“It would be nice, you know, if you represented the school as patron of the arts. You could let it be understood you were the mentor of the book.”

“Although I’m not,” said Rowland.

“Although you’re not.”

“Go to hell.”

“Can I quote you, Rowland?”

“Whatever you please. It’s hell you’re going to, anyway.”

“I’m sorry to hear,” said Chris, “that Célestine gave you the brush-off.”

“Did she?”

“I believe so, Rowland.”

“There may be another time,” Rowland said. “Another occasion. Girls change their minds.”

“You’ll come and meet my future publisher?”

“Do you have a contract already?”

“No. He’s expressed an interest. That’s sufficient.”

“All right. I’ll come.”

Chris and Rowland were seated in one of the hotel’s series of sitting rooms, one leading into another, each upholstered in a different floral pattern. Nina had offered the hospitality of the school but Chris had said he preferred to be independent.

It was four thirty in the afternoon, the time of their appointment with Monty Fergusson the London publisher who had checked into the hotel at about two o’clock. Rowland left a message at the desk for the publisher, telling him where to find them.

A clerk from the desk approached them: “Mr. Wiley?”

“That’s me,” said Chris.

“A message from Mr. Fergusson. He sent down a message to say he’s detained with some business on the phone to London and will be half an hour late. Can he offer you something to drink while waiting or would you prefer to return later?”

Rowland said, “Well, I—”

“We’ll wait,” said Chris.

Rowland ordered a single malt, Chris, a Coca-Cola.

“Has he read your book, so far as it goes?” Rowland said.

“I expect so.”

“Perhaps he’s actually looking at it now. Those big firms employ readers. The publishers don’t read everything themselves.”

“Mine is a special case.”

“Yes,” said Rowland.

“Can you ever get me out of your mind?”

“You’re not on my mind. In fact, all the time I was in Yorkshire I didn’t give you a thought.”

Their drinks arrived.

“Perhaps we should pay,” said Chris.

“Certainly not. Why have you suddenly lost your confidence?”

“Oh, fame’s a new experience for me. I’ll get used to it. Your father’s death made you forget me.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Maybe you need another death to get over your obsession. A more important one.”

“Let’s hope not,” said Rowland.

The windows of the room looked over the steel-gray lake. The surface was rough, the sky overclouded. Nonetheless, it was a handsome scene. Rowland was impatient for the publisher to arrive and enjoy the fine scene while it was still daylight. He said, “Once the school breaks up and you go away, you know I’m going to reorganize my life. I want you to leave me alone, though.” It was evident that he spoke as if he had a choking sensation, which in fact he had.

“You will not murder me,” said Chris.

Rowland sipped his drink and gazed out of the window. Chris said, “You will murder Nina.”

“What?”

“Nina. The papers will say you found her in bed with her lover.
Crime passionnel.
Something you’d have to live with, and forget me. A death.”

“You’re mad, more mad than me,” said Rowland.

“And it will be bad for the school,” Chris said.

A very tall figure was approaching their table. Monty Fergusson, about fifty, with a shock of white hair surrounding a smooth, youngish face.

“Nice place,” he said, meaning who knows what?

“I’m Rowland Mahler,” said Rowland. “This is Chris.”

Monty Fergusson took Rowland’s hand, and nodded to Chris. He had been put on the plane for Geneva that morning with a bulky piece of manuscript to read: The famous novel or rather, book, by the sort of famous youngster of seventeen. The boy had been well photographed and talked about. There would probably be a film. Monty was given to understand that the book involved “a new theory of the murder of Mary Queen of Scots’ husband.” A good commercial proposition while it lasted. Monty had started to look through it on the plane, flicking over the pages so as to absorb the paragraphs here and there, and for the last twenty-five minutes up in his room he had read the opening chapters entirely, and the last ten pages of the unfinished script.

“Our school,” said Rowland, “also looks over the lake.”

Monty sat with the fat package on his lap and looked at Chris. “You’ve put in a lot of work, here.”

“Oh, yes, I should be finished quite soon. I have two alternative endings. I have to make a choice.”

“Yes, choice . . . Choices are rather a problem aren’t they?”

“It will turn out all right.”

“It will be all right because of your youth and the publicity you’ve spread about. How far has the film project come along? Do you have a contract?”

“Not yet. Of course, they’re waiting for publication of the book itself.”

“The book itself,” said the publisher, “is actually a lot of shit.”

“Oh, come,” said Rowland in a very soft, awed, voice.

“Are you trying to beat down the price?” said Chris.

“I haven’t made an offer,” said the publisher.

“But there are other publishers, other offers,” said Chris.

“And other authors,” said Monty. “Which reminds me I have to hire a car to get back to Geneva for dinner tonight. I have an author to see, there in Geneva. Very interesting . . .” He got up and went to the desk to order his car. When he came back he didn’t sit down again. He merely shook their hands and said to Chris, “I’ll be interested to see the final draft. Our readers will get copies. I think, though, you’ll have a lot of work to do on the book. That would be up to the editors if they could rework it. If they could . . . Nice to see you. Good-bye. Good-bye.”

16

That Chris’s book needed a whole lot of work on it was a story that soon caught on in the swift tale-bearing publishing world. Chris, struggling with his alternative endings, was now stuck in his final chapter. Shaken by Monty Fergusson’s reaction he telephoned a literary agent, from whose tone he sensed a decided drop in enthusiasm for his forthcoming novel.

“Monty Fergusson is an enemy,” he told Nina, who reported it to Rowland.

“Not an enemy of yours, anyway,” Rowland said. He didn’t go so far as to tell her that Chris could be regarded as her enemy, but he recounted calmly the embarrassing encounter in the hotel sitting room with Monty Fergusson.

“He’s reputed to be tough,” Nina said.

“Where money’s concerned they’re all tough. It’s only because he’s a juvenile prodigy that Chris has all this attention. Perhaps if he was an active author of 100 years old in a wheelchair the result would be the same.”

“But he looks nice and wild. The younger set will like him.”

“The younger people don’t read books much. They’re not all like us.”

“What about the movie?”

“If you ask me,” said Rowland, shaking a lock of hair off his face, “the whole thing’s an air bubble. The book’s a lot of shit.”

“That isn’t unusual.”

“No, it isn’t.”

She could see Rowland was less tense, even pleased at the awful meeting with the very busy publisher. She noticed he was making notes on his computer. He looked up and said, “Practical jokers can easily become psychopaths, don’t you think?”

“Oh, yes, but what has Chris actually done that’s awful?” said Nina.

“He has awful ideas.”

“Oh, ideas . . .”

Tilly was all vigilant. She made it her business to know that a few days later Chris had put through a call to an alternative publisher, who was expected to ring him back but didn’t.

She went to see him in his room. “There’s no need to panic,” she told him.

“Perhaps not for me,” said Chris.

Fax to Alexander Archer:

Dear Dad,

I’m glad to hear you got a promotion, you are going to need the money there is this dance coming up at the end of term one of us outshining the other a five star do, and there is a boutique in Lausanne with some dresses of my choice. My shoes are worn down like a tramp and I need levis and warm tops you wouldn’t let me freeze Get the message in detail just send me the money. Your coming to the dance bring Melinda for my choice. We can go on to Rome or Paris for Xmas and N. Year what a good idea before going home, to soften the blow. Pallas Kapelases father George has been arrested in Germany for smuggling a stolen painting not el Greco but a school of. It’s all a cooked up plot because Mr. Kapelas is a spy and they know it. But Nina’s lover Israel Brown the Art gallerist knows all about it and says confidentially which is why Im telling you that Kapelas is mixed up with everything and the only solution for him is religion, he should go to a monastery. In spite of all that Israel is in love with Nina and pulling the strings to get Pallases Dad released if only on bail, then he can always get away. Rowland’s father died we held a prayer meeting for him. Now R. has got his inspiration back. A publisher came to Ouchy about Chris’s Novel sight unseen but he read it on the way and by the time he got to his hotel he regretted it and gave Chris a bad time which gave Rowland a good time as I told you that’s the way it goes and we don’t know what to think. He (Rowland) goes on with our English classes I bet you don’t know what a gerund is, also our creative writing class which I love. Chris keeps away, hes more like a lodger than a student. Of course hes very close to Pallas. Something is going on between them, not sex as Pallas says she has to be a virgin when she marries. But she looks after his private papers and scripts I still think he is a genius and hope he won’t commit suicide. Im counting the days don’t forget my cash love and kisses Joan

Giovanna Brown arrived in Lausanne to join her nephew at Ouchy for a long weekend. She found him absorbed with Nina. She was in the way even though the house was a big one. The Browns knew few people in those parts and it seemed that all of those few were away in London, in the West Indies, New York, anywhere but in already cold Ouchy.

“Where is that red-haired genius I played my violin to?” she said to Nina, who was about to have lunch in the kitchen with Israel.

“He’s at the school. Rather depressed. His publisher-to-be didn’t rave over the book.”

“Has he written a book, then?”

“Almost,” said Nina.

Giovanna found a plastic shopping bag and put in it some fruit juice, a tin of
pâté
and some biscuits. With this, she set off for the school on Israel’s motorbike.

The school were at lunch. Giovanna put her head round the door of the dining room. Rowland stood up: “Anything wrong? Nina—”

“Nina is lunching with Israel.”

“Well, I know that.”

“I’ve come for Chris. I’ve brought a picnic.”

“No need for that. Sit down. Célestine will get you a plate.” He waved a hand toward her. “You’ve all met Giovanna.”

There was a vacant chair beside Lionel, opposite Chris. She sat there, and when her place was laid she helped herself to some saladlike mixture out of a very large bowl.

“You want to see me?” Chris said.

“What are you up to?” Giovanna said.

“But you, what are you up to?” said Chris. “Shouldn’t you be at your music school?”

“I flew in from Vienna for the weekend to see Isy. He’s utterly engaged, so here I am. Amuse me.”

“Read some of your book to Giovanna,” said Tilly.

“All right. You can all listen,” said Chris.

“We have a poetry class this afternoon,” said Rowland, “followed by a special lecture by our neighbor and Giovanna’s nephew, Israel Brown, on the modern Irish movement in art.”

The students then fell to investigating the strange nature of young Giovanna’s relationship to Israel the elder, which she elaborately explained. Chris arranged with Giovanna to see her after lunch, promising to read her some of his book.

She joined him in front of the fire in the school sitting room. He hadn’t brought his book, but he outlined it to her up to the point he had reached.

“Does it sound like a lot of shit?” he said.

“Oh no, it sounds a perfectly good story. This queen hates her beastly husband and loves the charming little Italian musician who makes her so happy. The husband gets terribly jealous and gangs up with his friends to kill the sweet musician, so the musician’s young brother gangs up with his influential friends abroad and brings them to kill that husband of the Queen. It’s a great story. There’s an opera on those same lines by Donizetti. The Queen of Scotland calls the Queen of England ‘vile bastard.’ It’s great. What’s your problem?”

“The publisher thinks the young brother couldn’t possibly be involved. But anyway, it’s a work of fiction. Novelists can say what they like. I only have a problem with the ending. There are two alternative endings. One, we see the Queen late in life before her execution—”

“Was she put to death?”

“Oh yes. She plotted against the Queen of England.”

“Yes, now I remember that in the opera.”

“Anyway, here she is reflecting on her past life and the whole affair. I don’t know for sure if Rizzio the musician was her lover, by the way. She was so tall and he was so tiny.”

“It could be an attraction of opposites,” said Giovanna.

“Does that often happen?” Chris said.

“It happens all the time.”

“Well, I’ll think of that for my second draft. The second alternative ending is this. We see Rizzio’s brother Jacopo, who I make a musician, too, received in honor by his family in Italy. He is given a public welcome by the town, having vindicated his brother’s death. I haven’t decided which ending to close my novel with.”

“Do both,” said Giovanna. “First, the Queen looking back on her love life full of the language of music, and second, the hero’s welcome.”

“Well,” said Chris, “I’ll think of that, too. It does me good to talk to you. I’m hoping for a movie, you know.”

“For a movie,” she said, “I’d put the young brother’s homecoming first with his playing some photogenic instrument. Then I’d put the Queen looking back on the romantic life as she walks to her death.”