The Revolt of Aphrodite (36 page)

The radiance moved inexorably towards us in slow camera-time. It was possible to see how really beautiful she had become—factitious beauty I don’t doubt, but very real. The smooth skin had burst from its mask of eggwhite fresh as a chick. Smiling eyes and modelled nose. Moreover she accepted her presentations with a modest
distinction
which won one as she floated effortlessly down the long line of dignitaries. Kallipygos Io, acting the third caryatid for all she was worth. The cameras traversed lecherously across our numbed faces. I was tempted to close my eyes on the ostrich principle in the hope that she would not see me; but I saw the critical gaze of Baum upon me and refrained. The radiant light was upon me at last and here she was with beautifully manicured fingers extended towards me. “
Xaire
Felix” she said, in a low amused voice, and the little sparks of
mischief
took possession of the centres of her eyes. Perhaps there was also something a little proudly tremulous there too—she was half pleased and half ashamed of all these trappings of success. I replied hesitantly and in a Pleistocene Age Greek to her greeting. She
depressed
her cheeks in the faintest suggestion of the old grin and went on, low-voiced, looking about her to judge whether anyone in the line understood what she was saying. “I have been wanting to see you for some time past; I have much to tell you, to ask you.” I nodded humbly and said “Very well”, which sounded stupid. I could see Baum swelling with pride, however, and this encouraged me to add “As soon as you have time, as you wish.” Iolanthe wrinkled her brow
briefly and said: “Thank you. Quite soon now.” Then she passed slowly along to where the Mayor stood panting and mopping.

She made a speech, brief and wise, and obviously written for her; she did not mention motor-bikes in it. Then with a huge pair of dressmaker’s scissors she cut the ribbons. We all poured reverently into the Exhibition behind her. In the heat of battle the mayor had forgotten to deliver his reply to her speech; he stuffed it into his
tailcoat
and followed manfully. There was nothing further to keep me and I made my way back to the bar for another drink to wait upon her departure—for she might conceivably ask for me again and I didn’t want to hurt Baum. Through the curtain I kept a sharpshooter’s eye on the proceedings, so intently, indeed, that I hardly heeded a thump on the shoulder from behind. Then, spinning round, I found myself face to face with Mrs. Henniker. “My poy!” The last person in the world I was expecting to see! She extended a hand rough as a motoring glove and pumped mine violently; she spoke with untold vivacity. She had not changed by a day—but yes; to begin with she was dressed in country tweeds and natty brogues, a black pullover and pearls. Neatly smart. Her hair had been cut into roguish curls and dyed reddish. She smelt rather heavily of drink, and there was a slight vagueness of eye and speech which suggested—but this might have been sheer emotion at seeing me again. Her skin was rough and red and windblown. She was carrying several folders and a notebook. She moved up and down on her heels with triumphant delight. To my question about what she might be doing there she jerked her head in the direction of the Exhibition and said: “With her. I am Iolanthe’s secretary.” Then, draining her glass at a blow: “The minute she could she wired me to come to her. She has been a daughter to me, and I …” she broke off to order another round “have been a mother to her.” There was no suspecting the deep emotion with which she made me this confidence. “Well I’m damned” I said, and Mrs. Henniker gave a harsh cackle of laughter. “You see?” she said with gleaming eye, raising her glass. “How strange life is?”

We had several more drinks on the strength of this, and it was only when the goddess was leaving that Mrs. Henniker jumped to her feet and exclaimed that duty called. “Can you come to Paris next week? She prefers to meet you there—because of Julian.” I jumped.
“Of course I can come to Paris.” Mrs. H. shook her red wattles and said “Good, then I’ll get in touch with you with all the details. She will have to dress up, you know, and meet you in a café or something. I expect she’ll explain everything to you. But she’s mobbed wherever she goes. And there’s no privacy in the apartment. I’ll ring you. Ah my poy‚ my poy.”

I drove back to London with a certain pleasurable perplexity, in the company of Baum who was beside himself with joy at the great success. Full justice had been done both to the painters and also to those superior titillations of the thinking mind like the Merlin
lawn-mower
. “You must have been very moved to see your work bang opposite the great masters” he said. “And she was so beautiful I felt quite afraid. Do you know she gets a million dollars for every film now? A million dollars!” His voice rose in a childish squark of amazement. “She was like a flower, Mr. Charlock.” Yes, an open flower filled with synthetic dew. “A dedicated artist” went on Baum impressively. Indeed. Indeed. Full of the
feu
sucré.
I was jealous of her success.

It is all very well to be flippant; the truth was that even from the glimpse I had had of the new Iolanthe I had gathered the impression of a maturity and self-possession which made me rather envious. She seemed to me to be very much her own woman leading a life a good deal more coherent than mine. And yet it had been a pretty good mess had it not? I picked up an evening paper at the corner and took it home to dinner, the better to study the pictures of her and of her husband; it was still in the rumour stage, of course, this
impending
separation, but it remained undenied, which gave it a certain flavour of validity. Well, all this was nothing to do with me. After dinner Julian rang up and startled me—I mean that I had almost forgotten his existence, and the fact of his voice resurrecting thus caused me a real surprise. He talked about the Exhibition, asked me if it had been a success and so on. I described as much of it as I could; and I had the impression that he positively drank in anything I might have to say about Iolanthe. He seemed to linger over anything concerned with her.

Then he modestly cleared his throat and said, almost humbly: “She was your mistress once, wasn’t she?” I replied: “No, not this
woman. That was quite another girl. She’s completely changed, you know.” Julian’s voice sank a tone. “Yes, I know,” he said “I know.” There was a long silence; then he said: “Has she asked to see you? Will you be meeting?” But, made cautious by long doubting, I
replied
: “No. We have nothing to say to each other now, I don’t think there is any point.” He grunted, and I could hear him light a match. “I see. By the way, I hear that Benedicta hasn’t been too well this last week. Nash has gone down to see her.” I supposed that meant some more deep sedation. I said nothing. Benedicta rose with my gorge until I was filled with a sensation of nausea.

“In the meantime” said Julian “I want you to spend a few days in Paris.” He gave me the details of some negotiations which were going on; I duly noted them down on my blotter. “Very well” I said. “Very well.” And that was that; he sounded as if he were speaking from Dublin or Zürich. I returned to my fire and my cigar, full of a certain mild surmise. (To bow or not to bow, that is the question?) Before going to bed I sent a night letter to Mrs. Henniker, asking her to phone me at the office on the morrow.

But it was Iolanthe’s voice which came over the wire, heavy with sleep. “Henniker is off today so I thought I’d ring you…” she began, and then switched into Greek, in order, I suppose, not to be
understood
by the casual switchboard operators. “I want to give you a number to ring when you come—I hope you do. I am here for another month at least. I’m so looking forward to it. When do you think you will come? Friday and Saturday I have free.” So the appointment was made, aided and abetted by the chance which was to take me to Paris anyway. My spirits rose at the prospect of a short change from snowgirt London—even though it would mean lodging at the Diego which was owned by the company and where everything was free. I know. Everyone hates the Diego—its spaciousness confers an
infernal
anonymity upon its residents. But then I had some trivial details about patents to discuss: and this was the ideal place to
discuss
them, for it boasted of elegantly appointed conference rooms smelling of weary leather and Babylonian cigars. Threading and weaving about its great entrance halls with their flamboyant
marquetry
were grouped all the traditional denizens of the international world of affairs—Arab potentates with black retainers poring over
maps of oilfields, gamesome little bankers from the USA moving on hinges, forgotten kings and queens, gangsters, revivalists and fleshy brokers. The never-stopping hum of critical conversations, anguished bids, political lucubrations, arguments, disagreements, hung heavy on the air. All this variegated business fauna pullulated. The Diego buzzed with a million conflicting purposes, schemes and schisms.

I conducted my business with despatch and moved into the
fourteenth
where I had once lodged as a youth; it was still there, the old Corneille, though it must have changed hands a hundred times since. Still the same high reputation for general seediness and defective plumbing; but modestly priced, and with rooms backing on to
insanitary
but romantic courtyards, and tree-tufted. Also there was my old room vacant. It was in reality Number Thirteen, but in deference to public superstition it had been renumbered Twelve A. The old telephones creaked and scratched, half transforming the melodious laugh of Iolanthe when at last I reached her. “Listen” she said “you know my problem about being mobbed—she told you? I daren’t show my face except over a cop’s shoulder. And so I have to dress up a bit to enjoy any sort of privacy.” She sounded however as if she
enjoyed
it. “And this apartment is useless, here I am watched.” I groaned. “O God,” I said “not you too. Must we then meet heavily veiled or in false beards? And who watches you anyway?” I groaned again. “Julian!” I said with bitter certainty. She laughed very heartily. “Of course not. It’s my husband.” Out of the window Paris was in the grip of a magnificent early spring thaw, gutters running, trees leafing, birds loafing. The scent of pushing green in the parks, the last melted drops running from the penis of the stone Pan in the public gardens. “Well what, then?”

“I am going to act Solange” she said gaily.

“Solange?” I was startled. “What do you know about Solange?”

“Your little girl” she said. “Everything you told me about her has stayed in my memory like a photograph.”

“I told you about Solange?” This was really surprising; Solange had been a little
grisette
with whom I had lived for one brief summer—actually part of the time here, in this room. But when could I have mentioned her to Iolanthe?

“You have forgotten” she said. “You told me all about her, making unfair comparisons with me. I remember being depressed. She was so this, she was so that. Besides I didn’t realise that it was all Paris snobbery. In those days everyone simply had to have a love-affair in Paris or risk being ridiculous. But I didn’t know that—you took
advantage
of my ignorance. Nevertheless I listened carefully, always anxious to learn. And I have never forgotten Solange. And what is more, I shall prove it to you. At eleven-thirty. The Café Argent isn’t it?” As a matter of fact it used to be the Café Argent all right; then back here for those tender little manoeuvres which by now I had so completely forgotten that I had to make a real effort to recapture the fleeting expressions on the white peaky face of my little Parisienne. “Good God” I said. It seemed an extraordinary thing to bring up; one never knows what lumber one has shed like this—lumber which has been preserved in somebody’s memory. Tons of this detritus thrown off by a single life, flushed away one thinks: but no, someone has recorded it—sometimes a chance remark, sometimes a whole case-history. “Very well” I said with resignation. “Come and act her then.”

She did it to such good effect that for a moment I did not quite believe it—of course she could not look exactly like Solange: and there were quite a few young women sitting along the
terrasse
even at that time of day—laid up like trinkets in some pedlar’s tray. But then Solange! It was only when the waiter brought me a little slip of torn newspaper with a question mark on it, indicating the sender of the missive by a jerk of his head, that Solange burst out of the tomb and into that warm spring sunlight. Solange of the powder-blue skirt badly cut, the dove-grey shoes much worn, the yellowing
mackintosh
, colour of an uncut manuscript: cheap beads, crocodile
handbag
, mauve beret. Rising she came towards me with that heavily whitewashed face and over-made up eye, with that flaunting yet diffident walk. (The diffident part was Iolanthe herself.)
“Je
suis
libre
Monsieur.”
Among those shy students, Germans, Swiss and Americans, the little monotonous whining voice, the dire sadness covered by the deliberately pert smile. “Iolanthe,” I exclaimed “for
goodness
’ sake—what next?” She burst into a characteristic peal of common laughter as she sank into the wicker chair beside mine,
putting her handbag on the table between us. She clapped her hands to summon a waiter and demand a
coupe
in her marvellous tinfoil tones. “Go on,” she said “tell me I can’t act.
The
Times
says I can’t act.” But the brilliant impersonation of Solange held me spellbound. Of course she was wigged—brown bobbed hair with two points at her dimpled mouth. Certainly she would never be recognised like this. “You see?” she said, clipping her arm through mine as we sat. “So we can be free to talk. Tell me everything that has happened to you.” I should have answered perhaps that while much seemed to have happened in fact catastrophically little had. Where to begin anyway? I tried my hand at a brief sketch of my fortunes; there was much that she already knew. She listened carefully, attentively, nodding from time to time as if what I said confirmed her own
inward
intuitions. “We are in the same boat” she said at last. “Both rich, celebrated and sick.”