The Hothouse by the East River (6 page)

The
Princess says, ‘My spectacles are in my bag, Paul. Let Mr Garven deal with this
poor girl.’

Garven
is over by the north window where the main radiator is. He is trying to turn
off the control knob which is already turned off as far as it will go. He lays
his hands on the very hot radiator. ‘These old apartment houses,’ he says.

‘Mr
Garven,’ says the Princess, rolling big eyes to indicate Delia and the fact
that his duty lies there.

‘Always
too hot,’ Garven says, frantically, now pulling at the knot of his tie, and
anxiously looking around the room for guidance. Paul stands peering at the
soles of the shoes.

‘My
name,’ Garven informs the Princess, ‘is Bey, spelt B - E - Y. My surname.’

‘Oh, I
thought you were a Mr Garven. Garven is your Christian name, is it?’

‘My
pre-name. These goddam old apartments —’

‘Lousy
language, your doctor,’ shouts Delia, who now starts up from the sofa. ‘All
lousy, here. What you done for Mrs Hazlett all the lousy money she spent on
you? What you ever done for her?’

After
which Delia runs out of the room, and her footsteps can be heard along the
corridor to the kitchen. From there her voice can still be heard, but not her
words.

‘New
York is changing,’ says Princess Xavier. ‘What did you want to bring me here
for?’ Garven says. ‘This is a madhouse. Why me?’

‘Have
you got your reading spectacles, Poppy?’ says Paul impatiently, indicating her
bag with one of the shoes. ‘This is important,’ he says. ‘I want you to see.’

The
front doorbell rings. Garven looks at his watch, takes out his handkerchief and
pats his forehead. The front door can be heard being opened. ‘A madhouse,’
Garven says and looks again at his watch.

The
Princess fetches her glasses out of her bag and takes her time to put them on
properly. ‘Let us see,’ she says soothingly. ‘Sit down, Mr Garven, there’s no hurry.’

‘I’m a
busy man,’ Garven says.

The
Princess is peering closely at one of the shoes. Then she holds it at arm’s
length, to study it. She says to Garven, ‘Now I must concentrate on this. Sit
down. Elsa has your Institute of Guidance at heart. Be patient.’

Whereupon
Garven sits down.

‘I
see,’ says the Princess, ‘the words, “Melinda’s, New York, Chicago.” which is
only the name of the store.’ She looks towards the door of the room. ‘Isn’t
that Katerina I hear?’ she says. ‘Katerina must have stopped by. How nice.’

‘And
underneath?’ Paul says. ‘Below that, what do you see?’

‘I
can’t make it out. Impossible,’ says the Princess. ‘Elsa will have to wear them
some more, then one will be able to see more clearly. If I were you, Paul, I
shouldn’t worry.’ She turns to Garven with an approving smile, apparently
because he has been good and sat down when told. And as if to humour him
further she loosens the clasp of her shawls. ‘Yes, it really is very hot in
here,’ she says, exposing a large expanse of flesh under her low-cut beady
afternoon dress.

Katerina
comes in with her mother. Delia, growling and dressed for the street, follows.

Garven
screams. His eyes are on the Princess’s bosom. He screams. Under the protective
folds of her breasts the Princess, this very morning, has concealed for warmth
and fear of the frost a precious new consignment of mulberry leaves bearing
numerous eggs of silk-worms. These have hatched in the heat. The worms
themselves now celebrate life by wriggling upon Princess Xavier’s breast and
causing Garven to scream.

‘Lousy
doctor,’ shouts Delia. ‘I go home now thank you very much.’ She leaves with a
long, loud run and a crash of the front door.

‘Katerina,
my dear,’ says the Princess, ‘fetch me a paper bag. My worms!’

‘Don’t
panic,’ says Garven to Paul. ‘Don’t panic,’ he says to Elsa.

Katerina
takes a small packet of face-tissues from her bag and tosses them on to the
Princess’s lap. ‘Wipe them off with these,’ she says. ‘Whatever’s wrong? — Did
you catch some complaint?’

‘My
little worms,’ says the Princess, carefully extricating the mulberry leaves
from under her lapping breasts, and delicately picking the worms from her skin.
She wraps them carefully in the leaves and face tissues and then, after a
little hesitation, places them inside her gloves which she arranges tenderly
in her handbag.

Elsa
goes to her chair by the east window. ‘It’s stopped snowing.’ she says.

‘Elsa,’
Paul says. ‘Elsa — I’m your husband and I’m asking you. What’s written on those
shoes?’

‘Don’t
panic,’ says Garven.

‘Little
things, prematurely born,’ says the Princess.

‘What
do you know?’ Katerina says, ‘what do you know — The Pope is going to abolish
the colour red for Cardinals.’

Her
father says, ‘Katerina, there are messages in code from Kiel on these shoes.
Will you be serious for once? Will you think of me for one minute. What kind of
daughter are you?’

‘I
found out something about Kiel for you,’ she says. ‘My God, I did! I dated him
twice. He’s got clap. I know, because he’s given it to me. Now I need treatment
quick and I need some money for it. Don’t panic.’

‘Mr
Garven,’ says the Princess. ‘Take Miss Hazlett immediately to the hospital.
She must not drink from cups that anyone else is going to use.’

‘It
isn’t my field,’ Garven says, ‘but I’d be happy to recommend —’

‘I
don’t believe her,’ says Paul. ‘I don’t believe a word she says.’

‘Elsa!’
says Garven. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘Get a
doctor for Katerina if she needs one,’ says Elsa, waving her arms in large
dismissal.

Garven
gives another sort of cry, not a scream, but a deep and chesty sound as if he
were groaning from a thousand miles away. He stands up and walks backwards.
‘There’s something wrong with your shadow,’ he says. ‘It’s falling in the wrong
direction.’ She moves her arm again, waving merrily. He stops walking backwards
and looks at the dancing shadow. ‘Things had to come to a head as I told you,
Elsa. This is a major event in your case-history. You’ve externalised.’

‘Nonsense,’
says the Princess as she wraps herself up again. ‘There’s nothing new about
Elsa’s symptom. A discerning healer would have noticed long before this. She’s
had it for years.’

Katerina
says, ‘It even shows in photographs.’

‘Quiet,
quiet,’ breathes Paul to his daughter. ‘Don’t bandy these factors about. Have
you no respect for your family? You never told me before that you even noticed
your mother’s disability. Now you come here and open your mouth in front of
everyone. Can’t you keep a thing to yourself?’

‘Yes,’
she says. ‘I didn’t breathe a word about Ma’s shadow to Kiel.’

‘You saw
Kiel? — You did see Kiel?’ he says.

‘He
calls himself Mueller,’ says Katerina.

‘Shadows,’
says Garven, looking round the room. ‘Hysteria. Worms. You’ve externalised,
Elsa.’

‘Externalised
what?’ she says.

‘Your
problem.’ Her Guidance Director looks at her with the anticipation of a fortune
to be cultivated and reaped. ‘A rare if not unique occurrence — a case of
externalisation. Probably total.’

‘She
could go in a circus,’ Katerina says.

‘I have
to get a new maid,’ Elsa says. ‘How do I start?’

IV

‘It gives me the creeps,’
says Paul, ‘to have that psychoanalyst waiting on me at table and brushing my
suit in the morning. I don’t know how you can stand it.’

‘Delia
was so marvellous,’ Elsa says. ‘A pity she broke down like that.’

‘Well,
get another girl. Get another girl. This is unwholesome.’

‘I
can’t find a girl. Garven is very willing. He’ll do anything for us so long as
he gets material for his book about my case.’

‘Then
we’ll all be exposed in public. He’ll make a fortune and we’ll be ruined.
Haven’t you any foresight?’

Elsa
laughs. ‘He hasn’t got his material yet. He’s looking for the cause, and all
I’m giving him are effects. It’s lovely.’ She goes over to the window and looks
out, smiling.

There
is the sound of a key in the door, distinctly, along the passage.

‘There
he is,’ Paul says, ‘Here he comes. You can’t open your mouth in front of him.’

‘One
can always speak French in front of the servants.’

‘Do you
think he doesn’t know French?’ Paul says.

‘Oh, I
don’t know about that,’ says Elsa. ‘I was only thinking of some way of putting
him in his place. What does it matter if he understands what we say, since we
never say anything that matters?’

Garven
puts his head round the door of the drawing-room and looks at them both in a
worried sort of way. ‘1 had a dental appointment,’ he says. ‘Did you want
anything?’

‘Ice,’
Paul says.

Elsa
says, ‘Would you feel very offended, Garven, if my husband and I conversed in
French when you are present in the room?’

‘Why?’
says Garven.

‘In
many societies,’ Elsa says, ‘It’s still usual to speak French in front of
servants and young children.’

‘Elsa!’
says Paul.

‘Why
French?’ says Garven.

‘Elsa,’
says Paul. ‘You’re going too far.’

‘I’m
not up in French,’ says Garven.

‘Mr
Hazlett wants you to quit, Garven. If we speak French will you quit?’

‘No,’
says Garven.

‘You
see?’ Elsa says, swaying ostentatiously from the window to the sofa, her shadow
waving with her. ‘You see? He’s got future plans for his thesis and his career.’

‘When
I’m through with this job I’ll let you know,’ says Garven, disappearing, so
that only his footsteps can be heard receding along the hall towards the
kitchen. Presently comes the clink of ice.

‘Poor
fellow!’ says Paul.

The
telephone rings.

‘That’s
Pierre,’ says his mother. ‘I know his ring. Answer it.’

‘Hallo,’
says Paul into the receiver.

‘Is
everything all right?’ says Pierre’s voice.

‘What
do you mean, “Is everything all right ?“ ‘says Paul, looking at Elsa while he
repeats his son’s question, as it may be for her to hear.

‘Is it
a good day or a bad day?’

‘What
do you mean, “Is it a good day or a bad day?”‘

‘Tell
him it’s a good day,’ says Elsa. ‘He means me. Tell him it’s one of my good
days. Come along, tell him.’

But
Paul’s attention is meanwhile eared to the voice at the other end and his free hand
stretches forth with a helpless flutter to hush Elsa’s talk, like the hand of
that King Canute who forbade the sea to advance in order merely to illustrate
the futility of the attempt.

‘I
can’t hear what you say,’ says Paul into the mouthpiece. ‘Your mother’s
talking. I can’t stand this house any more, this Garven. Are you at home now?
I’ll be right over.’

‘Back
in 1944 when people were normal and there was a world war on,’ says Paul to his
son, ‘it was a serious thing to be a spy. Very serious indeed.’

‘Was
it?’ says Pierre. ‘Do you hear that, Peregrine?’ he says, addressing his
friend who sits shapelessly on the sofa blinking his pinkish eyes, and drinking
whisky and soda from a tall fluted glass. ‘Father says,’ says Pierre, ‘that it
was a serious thing to be a spy back in the old days.’

Paul
says to his son’s guest, ‘I was instrumental in sending a spy to prison. He was
a German, a very dangerous, wild personality. Of course, he was a double agent.
Then he got wounded while trying to escape from his prison. He was shot. A few
months later we heard that he died of the wounds. But that was a ruse. He
didn’t die at all. Somebody else must have been substituted for him. I know,
because I’ve seen him in New York.’

Peregrine
shifts his eyes to tall young Pierre who is tipping tonic water into his gin
with a disdainful backward motion of the wrist and haughty lowered lids,
gestures that do not, however, signify anything special. ‘Is that the guy you
just went to check up on in the German prison?’ Peregrine says to his friend.

‘It
is,’ says Pierre.

Paul
looks at the two young men and his thoughts turn panicky: ‘This has all
happened a long time ago,’ he thinks. ‘What is now? Now is never, never. Only
then exists. Where shall I turn next? New York is changing. Help me! Help me!’
He says, ‘It was a fruitless journey, Pierre.’

‘Oh, I
wouldn’t say that,’ Pierre says. ‘The truth is always fruitful.’

‘The
truth, yes,’ says the father. ‘But you failed to find the truth. The records
have been falsified. Kiel is here in New York and he’s after me. They always
get their revenge.’