The Revolt of Aphrodite (35 page)

Sitting among the tall columns of blue cigar smoke I meditate on this broken record of a past which is still not too far away to be revived and recaptured; which can still be compared to itself for example—memory against records. Only the faults in human memory cause the doubt and distortion. Where neither memory nor machine is
completely
sure you often get this kind of tentative ascription on the page. Palimpsest.

To wake up with a start at two o’clock in the morning, surrounded by these growing hillocks of paper: to switch off and crawl girning up to bed. Only to echo on, I fear, in the dreams and fevers which crowded the skull of the happy weed. Did I say happy? Ah, Charlock
infelix—why ever did you let your fancy stray along these unbeaten paths, lured by the idea of razors which sharpen themselves as they cut, of an electronic Braille vibrating through the sensitive fingertips of blind men? All those hybrid voices filtering through my toys afflicted their creator’s sleep. A confused jumble of historical echoes—for once dead everything sleeps in the same continuum: a
historical
reference from Pausanias or a remark by a modern streetwalker—“a public mouth from which the lipstick has been gnawed”; or a line here and there of poetic aphorism—“poetry which modifies
uncertainty
awhile”. Somewhere walking hand in hand with a girl among the great stored stones of Delphi which seem to yawn at
post-Christian
relics—the Goth of a yawn.

Or as in the film where the Parthenon by celluloid moonlight seems fashioned in a modern soap; and Io’s face faceless with the interior preoccupations of the silent stone women with snail-locks. Stone head with ring? “Once a cut lip which kissing gave back salt and wine, pepper and loot”. On airless nights in the desert Benedicta and I climbed into cold showers and then without drying took the car to ride over the coiling dunes, to let the moon dry us out. “Death like hair, growing by inchmeal”. Voice of Hippo: “Of course they are starving; the humble always have the biggest wombs.” And then Julian’s chop-logic.
(I
must
see
his
hands.)
I awake with a cry, the
telephone
is ringing; but by the time I reach it it has gone dead, the caller has rung off. Dozing off again I dream that I enter my office to find a loaded revolver lying on my blotter.

Nevertheless … I nearly had him next day at Crockford’s; I had discovered that he often dropped in for a flutter. Indeed that very evening he had lost an impressive sum. But I was just too late; he had been spirited away by a phone-call. There was still the butt of a cigar burning in the silver ash tray by an armchair. The manservant showed it to me as one might show someone the bones of a martyr. I watched the cynical smoke curling upwards in the warm air. The tables were buzzing—all these people had seen him, he had been there standing shoulder to shoulder with them, or sitting smiling over a hand, really existing.

Then again I overheard a clerk telephoning some bookings to Nathan; Julian was going to Paris in the Golden Arrow. I noted the
numbers of his reservation and with a light heart (and lighter head) I went into the Strand and, somewhat to my own surprise, bought an automatic with six cartridges. I must have looked vaguely furtive, like a monk buying a french letter. Nor was it anything to do with aggressive notions—rather those of self-defence. But the action puzzled me a little. I sat at my desk and cleaned it respectfully,
waiting
for the taxi which would take me to Victoria. But once again I was bedevilled by traffic holdups. I burst past the ticket-collector and broke into a ragged gallop for my train was sliding smoothly out of the station. Coach six. Coach six. I redoubled my efforts. A window seat, number twenty-six, about the middle. Panting, I glimpsed the six on the side of a dining car and drew level with it. But the machine had gathered speed now and I had to put on another spurt to gain on the coveted carriage. Right down to the end of the platform I held it, gaining only inches.

Yes, I drew slowly abreast of Julian’s seat, but just not enough to see his face;
but
I
did
see
his
hands
! They were not the hands of Jocas, no. Very fine, small, white, Napoleonic fingers, holding a cigar. The hands of a manipulative surgeon, intricate, subtle fingers; but no face, I could not reach the face. I collapsed on a trolley at the end of the platform. Strangely enough I felt elated and a little frightened, perhaps even a shade triumphant. I had seen his hands, at any rate, or rather one of them. I left the automatic in a litter bin outside the station, burying it under some sodden newspapers. Its existence in my pocket was a puzzle which would not yield to analysis; yet once rid of it, the neuralgic pain between the eyes abated. I went down for a shilling wash and brush-up for the sheer curiosity of examining my face in the mirror. I looked amazingly well and quite handsome in an ugly way.

Yes, it was with a distinctly new feeling of relief that I found my way back to the office, to the plush-carpeted cage where I was
surrounded
with all the paraphernalia of the creative life. (Some new protos had appeared: I pawed them appreciatively.) The secretaries chirped in that white light (which turned fair powdered skins to buckram) excited by the quaint wheels and cogs. Quite suddenly I had lost all interest in Julian, in his identity; my mind had put him aside. I stood at the window, staring out at the beautiful austerities
of my winter London, wondering about the symbiosis of plants, and jingling the change in my pockets. I jest of course, for the backdrop of my consciousness was still crammed with the ominous images of the country house where Benedicta walked, with pale concentration, as if waiting for something to explode. She strained to listen to
something
which was just beyond the reach of human ears. She might even say “Hush” in the middle of a conversation; and once as I walked across the hall towards her I found her eyes fixed upon
something
which was behind me, something which advanced towards her as I did. She shrank away from me; then, with an effort of will, shook her head as a swimmer does to clear the water from his eyes, and
re-emerged
, smiling and normal and relieved.

Then one afternoon I arrived to find a long line of hearse-like buses drawn up outside the office, and the whole staff of Merlin’s in a ferment. I thought at first it was a funeral, everyone was dressed up in their best black. Extraordinary characters whom I had never seen before in my life poured out the nooks and crannies of the building—all clad with sepulchral respectability; they represented the differing totem-clans of our establishment—the accounts men like
cassowaries
, the legal men like warthogs or rhinos, the policy-makers like precious owls. Baum, superbly clad and ringed in a fashion which reminded one of a Blue Admiral flirting its wings, was busying
himself
with the organisation of this tramping crowd, now rushing to the window to assure himself that the hearses were being filled in an orderly manner, now marching up and down the corridors, tapping on doors and calling hoarsely: “Anybody there?” Clearly someone of national importance had turned up his toes. Baum caught sight of me and started: “You’ll be late” he cried tapping his sideburns. “What the devil is it?” I cried, and the good Baum lowering his head to an invisible lectern uttered the reproachful words: “The great Exhibition, Mr. Charlock. You mustn’t miss that.” I had
completely
forgotten about the affair. I could see Baum running a
reproachful
eye up and down my town-clothes. “Come as you are” he said. “There won’t be time to change now. I’ll tell your chauffeur.”

So I set off following this long cortège of apparent mourners across the star-prinkled snow-gashed London, jerked to a halt
everywhere
by traffic blocks (Baum gesticulating furiously), skidding in
mush and viscid mud. Had it been a funeral cortège, whom would we have elected corpse? Fortunately there was a well-stocked cocktail bar in the car, and I reinforced my resolution with a couple of strong whiskies, filled now with a sense of resignation. By the time we reached the white billiard table of the airport the snow had thickened and dusk was falling. The white lights of cars crossed and recrossed caressing each other, as if making recognition signals as insects do with their antennae. Some mad draughtsman had drawn black lines and parabolas everywhere on the whiteness, so that the whole place looked like some plausible but tentative geodetic diagram. We settled on the central building like a flock of starlings. But inside all was light and space and warm air.

The exhibition area was roped off by a silk ribbon. Everywhere stood policemen. Baum had told me that the insurance on the
pictures
was so huge that practically the whole CID would be needed to guard it. It was very well done I suppose. The hessian walls with their treasures confronted a wall of equal length and height which
contained
specimens of Merlin’s choicest products. I could not help chuckling—perhaps too loudly—and was quenched by the flashing eye of Baum. We clotted up in slow fashion to wait for our guests, milling slowly round, ill at ease. No drinks as yet, no smoking. Much pulling down of waistcoats, shooting of cuffs, adjustment of collars and ties. Some slid on the polished floors. I looked down at the notes my chauffeur had handed me to study a list of the guests. Everyone, literally everyone. Now through the swinging snow-silhouetted doors came the Lord Mayor of London, and the senior members of the diplomatic corps. Ye Gods!

And was that an illuminated address he held in scroll fashion upon his bosom? The police teemed like perspiration. Nor were the Worshipful Companies outdone by this social display—for here come the Fishmongers, Skinners, Cordwainers, Tanners, Logrollers, Straphangers, and God knows who else. All pink, all suitably
embaubled
, all determined to see justice done to the arts. As for the diplomats, they provided the overture, so to speak—so enormously complacent, so relaxed, so Luciferian in their elegance. They
recognised
each other in the crowd with little false starts of surprise and mock-cries of astonishment. “Fancy meeting you….” They hugged
each other with circumspection like actors who “when they embrace, hold each other’s wigs in place”. More snow and more lights. I gradually backed away into the crowd, found my way through a
curtain
into a small bar which was serving the ordinary passengers. Drink in hand I peeped out upon the dark superstitious horde. And Iolanthe? Well, rumours of her impending divorce were in all the papers together with moody pictures. I suppose it must be the same in all fashionable love-affairs conducted in the public eye—when the attraction wears thin you are left with a heap of soapsuds and a film contract. The hum of the company rose up into the glass roofs as if from a hive of bees or: “as sharp-tongued scythes gossiping in the grass”. I was feeling unsteady but secure. I yawned.

At last came a swirl of movement outside the great doors; six huge cars settled simultaneously, moth-like, spreading their wings. The police were all expectancy now. A brilliant star-flash of pink light coloured the whole scene—a dense brilliance which gave all out waiting eyes huge shadowed orbits. Cameras began to tattle; the smaller flash of light-bulbs dotted this aurora borealis with harsh white smears. “There she is” cried someone. “Where? Who? There! Who?”

The doors fell back and she advanced slowly in the centre of a semicircle of business-like looking people, perhaps armed guards? A hundred times more beautiful, of course, and set in the pattern of dark-suited men like the corolla of some rare flower. The famous crescent-shaped smile. She walked slowly with soft and hesitant tread, as if unsure of her role, looking about her almost beseechingly. In a twinkling the foyer was brimming with uninvited lookers-on—passengers, desk-employees, hairdressers, pilots…. The police started to try and prevent this intrusion. The spacious hall diminished in size until they were all shoulder to shoulder.

Iolanthe advanced with all the shy majesty of a pantomime fairy, certain of her applause and yet still a little diffident about it—I mean the thunderous clapping which swelled up to the roofs. The huge wet false eyelashes set off her features to admiration, giving them shape and grace. Her dress was shot with some sort of bright rayon which made it seem lighted from within. O, she was wired for sense and sound—nor could she escape an expression of alembicated piety
as she advanced towards the waiting dignitaries from whom she would unlock the mysteries of Monet, Manet, Pissaro…. And this was the girl who had once asked me what a Manet was. (“It says here that she bought a Manet—is it a sort of motor-bike?”) I hoped she would tell the Mayor that it was a motor-bike. Vaguely, in a shuffling manner, a line of reception was being formed. I was about to duck back into the bar when Baum appeared and caught me forcibly by the elbow and all but frog-marched me into this forming line,
whispering
“Please, Mr. Charlock. Please” in an agony of supplication. I hadn’t the moral courage to bolt; so found myself elbow to elbow with my fellow slaves in the direct line of march. I closed my eyes for a while to restore my composure and judge how much I might be swaying; but no, I was all right.