The Janeites (6 page)

When he could see – two beautiful black eyes like that beast, a lemur is it? (all he needed was rings on his tail) – the angel was a great comfort. You couldn’t call her Pretty; the sort of ratty dark-blonde hair which looks dirty even when clean – and she was clean from hair to toenails to underpants – and a coarseness of feature, but never mind, she was kind and good, and she got prettier by the day. On the other shifts, nice girls all. Not up to his Angel though.

The Professor dropped in for a chat with Dear-Colleague; alarmingly technical but kindly. Baldish when seen, with bits of fair gingery hair sort of strewn about; more to the point a marvellous pair of hands. The nose – no, his own – might look a bit aquiline, the
cheekbones
a bit slav, but good-as-new. The antrums and septum and suchlike dodgy affairs had not been as damaged as might have been feared. You’ve a good hard head, dear colleague; going to be right-as-rain. Consolidating nicely. Don’t worry about the headaches; they’ll wear off.

Being short on next-of-kin means there aren’t any bloody visitors (the police left behind an odd mentholated smell). On behalf of the Company Paul dropped in. He doesn’t know Paul at all well; quietish chap, with interests in medieval philosophers, Giordano Bruno and the like, and Paul is not particularly interested in Dr Valdez.

“Anything you want? Clean pyjamas or whatever?” He has always mumbled; his lips move in a funny way. “Books or anything?”

“I’m fine. Lovely girl here got me a toothbrush.” Hospitals are accustomed to the living-alone, unperturbed by the homeless, the indigent, or the mad. Angèle had asked whether there were phone-calls needing to be made. Sensible-Silvia (who had just cleared the police off the doorstep) was professionally discreet; cancelled his appointments for the coming days; said nothing to anybody. Janine, subduing hysteria and filled with a humble domestic zeal, was spring-cleaning the flat, in a virtuous glow at getting herself filthy. Paul, being a historian, could never be surprised by anything that might happen. Thus, the Jews of medieval Strasbourg, whose notions of medicine were in advance of beliefs commonly held, had gone outside the town in the search for purer water. But they hadn’t reckoned with the accusation of poisoning all the Christian wells, and got massacred in particular nasty fashion. ‘Anything that can go wrong will’ is also a Jesuit tenet.

It is very good to feel grateful for a network of solidarity. There you were; big-chief Hawkeye. But of a sudden – lost, in the middle of a desert. But you’ve got your modern-day convenience – your mobile phone, your credit cards, your little briefcase with the magic microchips. Except that you haven’t: nightmare. How are you to be rescued? The helicopter appears. It’s a big Deputy with a belly and expensive sunglasses, who bawls at you. ‘What the hell are you doing here? This is a forbidden area; this whole desert is radioactive; stand here over five minutes you’ve lost your balls. Papers! No papers? I’m putting handcuffs on you boy. Do your explaining to the Sheriff in Las Vegas; feel grateful if he doesn’t slam you in the drunk tank.’

Shuddering Raymond opened his eyes, and there was Paul, placidly smoking a cigar and using a coffee-cup as an ashtray. Mate, if Angèle comes in here she’ll have your balls.

“Needed, Paul, is a good Act of Contrition, is what we need.”

Because of course Angèle did come in, and made a tirade, about Grown Men, being Fucking Irresponsible. Not, to be sure, the first time the Society has been expelled from the kingdom. Viper in the bosom of Marianne, or a Russian spy in Nevada, you’ll get it in the neck. Well – sighing deeply and being very original – God moves in imponderable fashion. Why should anyone take the pains to break the bridge of his nose, in such an unpleasantly precise and spiteful fashion. What is the message? It sounds like ‘Boy, straighten up or something worse will happen.’ Who is it addressed to? A doctor, a Jesuit, a Russian spy? Is it Do something? Or Stop doing something? On the whole it would be nicer to know.

The day of his discharge he took a look in the glass. Feels still like it’s going to be Elephant Man with a trunk or something. And of course it’s perfectly normal. Perhaps just a touch more aquiline, but that’s a Sign of Distinction. Very good piece of cosmetic surgery.

“Smashing,” agreed his angel, in not, perhaps, the happiest choice of phrase. “The slight werewolf look is terrifically sexy.” He went out and bought her expensive chocolates.

As soon as Doctor Valdez (Silvia, to be honest) had got his affair in order he drove out to see William, to whom he had sent no message. It was anyhow a fine sunny morning.

The house seemed empty; no answer to his ring: garage door down, couldn’t tell whether the Porsche was there asleep. Around the side the garden wall was too high to see over without a ladder. Hm, French privacy. All that work (and a great deal of money) to build a fortress, and ‘what for?’ There was a door in this wall. Bolted. Looking down to the corner, vines came right up to the level of the garden William had done nothing with, but there was a path, and in the centre of the lower wall a grille, but one would still see nothing, even without the sun in his eyes; the architect had planned that you shouldn’t. Terraces had been built to the exact edge of the sightline and the house itself invisible from here. Cunning; one would admire if it wasn’t all such a waste.

Oh well, he’d try again before giving up. There must have been a camera in the front porch because William’s voice said, “Oh it’s you,” and the door opened at once. William met him in the hall. He had a gun in his hand. Unnecessary melodrama I’m making there: it was a small rifle, tucked in the crook of his arm.

“Sight for sore eyes. I thought you’d lost interest.”

“No. I was unavoidably detained. To make the story short I was in hospital.” William put the gun down. “Make the story long.”

“I had an accident,” said Raymond apologetically. “My nose got broken. I was out of action while they put it together again.”

“There is now you mention it something funny about your eyes.” Ho: the werewolf look.

“Some bones got remodelled.”

“Then that was some broken nose.”

“Somebody broke it for me.” He didn’t know why he said this. Was it because – an idea ridiculously remote – the attack had some obscure link to the man he was talking to? The life of a security guard could include people with exotic tastes. Now William looked at him with a sharp focus, an intensity.

“Come on out to the terrace. Nice morning. I want to hear more about this,” picking up his gun.

“What you doing with that?”

“It’s a Walther twenty-two. Pretty good with quality ammo.” Strolling out to the corner. “How far would you make it to the bottom wall there?”

“Hard to say, with the slope. Fifty surely?”

“Nearer a hundred. Easy for me since I knew already. See the crow?” He threw up the rifle, sighted, there was a dry hard slap, the bird fell off the wall.

“As though shot,” faking surprise.

“You try. Backsight’s at seventy-five, allow a scrap for wind from left to right.”

“No, I’m a Janeite, violence in any form. You shouldn’t shoot birds.”

“Songbirds I wouldn’t. Not many left around here, the local people shoot them, eat the grapes they say. Swarms of cats too. Shoot
them if I catch them. I’m violent of a sudden? No, I’m
a countryman. And an ex-cop. So now I want to hear what happened to you.”

Raymond told the story, bald. Not laughing, the audience; no, but smiling broadly.

“You think this had something to do with me?” Shrewd – and unexpected.

“I can’t for the life of me bring it home to anything.”

“Then we’ll have to find out.” Abrupt. “Coffee? No. Drink?”

“Yes, if it’s long and pretty unalcoholic.”

“Sit,” handing him the gun. “S’all right, there’s nothing in the magazine. Harmless as a stick,” walking off.

This top terrace was flagged. You could shade it when the sun got too hot. There was rattan garden furniture. The terraces below stretched out abandoned, weed-grown; and what a pity. The sunny wall would be perfect for espaliered fruit.

“Lots of lovely things planned,” thought Raymond aloud, “and never carried out.”

“Just so,” coming back with the drinks, “but one thing at a time.”

What a fine thing is youth! This was straight back to his time as a student in Cracow. Well, you’d expect Poland to be full of Jesuits, wouldn’t you. ‘Apple-pie’ is the student drink. The Szarlotka is two-thirds cold apple juice and the rest is buffalo-grass vodka: even then he’d been better at medicine than he was at theology But ‘can’t remember the name’.

“Zubrówka,” said William, pleased.

“These vines yours too?”

“Mr Baron Geoffrey de Sainte-Anne, who lives in the château over there, made a deal with his sister, with rather bad grace, to let her have this corner. Wedding present for me, that was supposed to be. Since the Baron is also the local mayor, and on excellent terms with every local authority, I was looking forward to a life of leisure and a rosy future. I’ve neither. It seemed a bit rough when I heard about that, but as an ex-cop I don’t believe in justice much. Thought I was stepping into a pretty grand world when I married Joséphine. Marky giggled a good deal about that. For him of course these local notables were so many jokes. I go on getting wine from Geoffrey.
He’s not a bad chap; bit of an old woman. Tight-fisted crowd, viewed as a whole – nothing stingier than the upper classes.”

“Tell me about your own family.”

“That’s quickly done because there’s none of it left. My father was still quite young when he caught his hand in a machine. Septicaemia. My mother, not very long after, had the windows tight shut on a cold winter’s night. Carbon monoxide. My brother and myself, big strong boys, thought of serving the Fatherland. Army, and police. He got into a little local difficulty out in Africa, got a posthumous medal for his pains. On the whole – you might say – we seem to have been an unlucky crowd.”

“Perhaps,” said Raymond, “we’ll reverse this string of fatalities. I begin to see it better; you saw your luck turning good. Only then it didn’t.”

“They’ve rather an elegant pad in Paris,” as though talking to himself. “We lived there while this place was building; I was still with the Marquis. Only one fine day I found I wasn’t married any more; it had all been a mistake. I’d do quite well I suppose out of a divorce settlement; she’s generous, you know. I haven’t done anything about it – and then when I got ill… One could sell all this – get rid of that pissy Porsche. Only I keep wondering, what’s the point.”

William would be a candidate all right, for the select company of Janeites.

“Things are following me round,” he went on. “You turn up, and what’s more it’s Marky who sends you. It’s like these damn stupid books – mystery, suspense, call them all sorts of names. Queer things happening. You come here – and somebody mugs you in the alley. I wonder whether I can find out more about that. Sort of job I know how to do. I’d be interested.”

“And you’re short of things to interest you. You might not be wrong. All right, I’ve got this chore in Paris, and when I get back we’ll be in touch, talk a bit more about matters… It’s a pity about this garden.”

“Yes,” said William ‘making an aphorism’, “never raining when you want it and always when you don’t.”

William Barton.

People live in little compartments. In the words of the old joke –
les
Vicomtes
se
rencontrent,
il
s
se
racontent
des
histoires
de
Vicomte.
I’ve seen a good deal of this.

People who live in a world of privilege, meaning power, wealth, influence, they lose touch with reality.

We were there to protect power. Sort of an in-joke among us. There were those who knew they were vulnerable, depended on us. And those who wanted to pretend we weren’t there. Got highly irritable. But mostly they came round, started to understand. Power can leak away, sudden. Had to come to terms with their fear.

These worlds don’t intersect all that much. They touch, at big pompous entertainments like an Elysée garden party, a fashionable occasion for some big culture-thing. They rub together in the showy restaurants, on the golf course, at exhibitions (the times we’ve cursed Roland-Garros or the Courson flower show.) A few overlap to some degree, like when bankers and the finance groups are licking there at a fine new honeypot. Come to rub noses at the watering holes, our daily bread and butter all that.

Some types are more Seldom-seen. Not exactly laggards in the money, nor the power-race. Not behindhand in the megalomania ratings either. Narrower frame of reference, lawcourts or the cardiology clinic. The doctors are like that. Do them justice, they often work hard. Great lords in their own shop, and just as far removed from the wear-and-tear. Insulated from servitudes by the string of aides and secretaries whose job is to smooth the path and strew the flower petals. No thought about getting the sack and not keeping up with the mortgage payments, nor even for missing the train, being late for work; boss is looking at his watch, don’t let it happen again, Jimmy.

I’ve never come across anyone like Ray Valdez. Close up, that is. Marky used experts in any branch where he’d got interested. An antiques dealer was just like the international-law specialist; if he wanted a water-diviner he’d tell Patricia to ring up the best.

You can see, straight off, that Raymond is good at his job; intelligent and sensitive, a quality of sympathy and a lot of humour. Be no
good as a cop – far too much imagination. Not a bit interested in the chase after money and power, of which I’ve seen so much. He’s more like an artist.

This is a word gets slung about over-lavish and I don’t mean pissing in the snow, making casts of the holes. The Marquis is an artist like the juggler in the circus, or a good jockey. I mean the one who sees things we don’t. I was trained myself to see a lot others don’t, and am no good at defining this. Occasionally though, along the corridors-of-power, I’ve seen a musician or a painter who was right off the map. I don’t understand ‘imagination’ but they know things which aren’t there, not in our world.