Adam Gould Read online

  ‘Yes,’ said Adam. ‘The ordinariness is what destroys you.’

  ‘You’ve known that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to accuse me of wallowing?’

  ‘But you didn’t, did you? You survived and grew up and wrote and helped people survive their own horrors. You’ve just helped me.’

  ‘Have you noticed how calm I am? Maybe it’s done me good to tell you?’ The sick man’s fingers, though, were flexing and making fists.

  ‘I suppose he wanted money from her? Scenes like that are usually about money, aren’t they? A lot of your stories are about it.’

  ‘You’ve read them?’

  ‘I’m reading them now. So are the doctors. From duty, but also pleasure. Some are painfully harsh, but we admire them.’

  ‘So tell me a story about someone you know. Not your own. My mother used to find incidents for me, kernels of narrative which I could develop. She was good at it. You find them in the oddest places.’

  ‘Like the pigeons pecking seeds out of dung?’

  ‘That’s it! Dung, sewers and I suppose madhouses are what people try not to see, but looking at them can be instructive and ...’

  Adam laughed. ‘I’m not flattered then that you come to me for a story!’

  The sick man produced his sanest smile. ‘My dear fellow ...’ But before their conversation could go any further a message arrived that Adam was wanted at the gate.

  ‘I’ll stay with Monsieur,’ said the man who brought it. ‘You’d best hurry,’ he warned Adam. ‘There could be an accident.’

  ***

  So far nothing at all had happened at the gate on which Uncle Hubert was still stuck like one of those culled animals which gamekeepers hang on fences to prove their diligence. He must be frozen! Poor, dear, foolish uncle! No doubt someone would eventually bring a ladder and get him down. Meanwhile thank goodness he was wearing gloves. Inside the carriage Danièle too was cold. She kept shaking her hands to help the circulation and occupied her mind with its best memories which, in spite of everything, were of her marriage. She had happy childhood memories too, of course, but now that she was grown up, they seemed to belong to someone else.

  Her husband’s name was Philibert d’Armaillé and they had met first at her mother’s funeral. A bony Belgian cavalry officer with knifing eyes, he condoled with an intensity which took her aback, for she was not feeling intense. Her mother’s decline had been punctuated by so many unconsummated deathbed scenes that the family’s grief was depleted long before she died, and Danièle’s mourning was to consist of willing herself to forget how sickness had winnowed away her mother’s character, leaving her as simple as a leech.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ the tall officer had said and stabbed her with his gaze. ‘I remember my own father’s end vividly.’

  Then he named his father whom she recognized as the subject of one of Gisèle’s bits of choice gossip. He was, said Gisèle, a notorious groper and had been seen, bare bum, riding a parlour maid in a moonlit shrubbery. The inappropriate memory got in the way of Danièle’s response to Philibert. So did shame. Whose? This was unclear. A mould of it furred her mind. Perhaps it made her seem deceptively docile at the receptions which her brothers, once the mourning period was over, decided to arrange. Pliant – did he think her tender? – she may have seemed to lead d’Armaillé on.

  ‘You need taking out of yourself,’ said the brothers, who were surprised to find how long they had left her alone with their mother in that mausoleum of a house. Two years? Three? ‘We must make things up to you.’ But they, of course, had their own lives to lead. Both were bachelors and soldiers, and neither could have her with him.

  I am a mole, she told herself. Dazzled. I have been living in the shadows and mustn’t leap to conclusions about anything.

  ‘You should get married,’ said the brothers. ‘Order new clothes. Try rubbing geranium petals into your cheeks.’

  Later there was a squabble followed by a duel. A rumpus. An enemy insulted Philibert and was challenged. The cause was complex. It involved family honour, but since parts of it were not for her ears, she never got things straight and hesitated to judge.

  ‘Spiritually, we are all one family,’ said Philibert to her on the eve of his duel. Her younger brother agreed to be his second. The other disapproved and held aloof.

  She feared he might be killed. Instead he killed his opponent whom he should not – it was, she learned, widely felt – have challenged since he himself was a crack shot. The press made a scandal of the thing, describing him as a murderer and the motives as risible. He then challenged a newspaper editor, whereupon his superiors let him know that they would have to court-martial him if he didn’t leave fast for the new Congo Free State where a ragtag force was fighting black Arab slave hunters. The Force Publique. No, Philibert, it was not the sort of outfit cavalry officers joined, but it was that or face a court martial. Seriously, said his well-wishers, you’d better forget horses. Sell yours. So he did and went. Frankly, he told Danièle, he wasn’t sorry to be leaving for a place where a man could test himself. Saving savages from slavers was a noble cause. And so was teaching them to work, which he understood to be part of the plan. On the eve of going he asked her to marry him and she, in a confusion of feelings, encouraged, it should be said, by a belief that her brothers wanted her settled, said ‘yes’. It was all very quick. The honeymoon was in France so as to get Philibert off Belgian soil.

  She helped him prepare for his African journey, and together they studied maps on which vast areas were still blank. Philibert was to join an expedition which would fill in some of these. There were no roads. Only a web of rivers with great drumming names which ran through tangles of rain forest. Slidy syllables rippled on his tongue: Congo and Lualaba, Sankuru and Lomami. She came to think of her husband’s penetration of her body in terms of maps showing pale, virginal spaces, thinly streaked with black. Nestling under his shoulder, she felt him ride her dark rivers. Her Congo and Lualaba, her drumming conduits.

  But she did not get to know him, for they had little time, and besides, she had neither standards of comparison nor any knowledge of men. ‘Teach me some bad words,’ she challenged. ‘When you and my brothers crack jokes, I feel a fool. Don’t you want me to be able to laugh with you?’

  Indulgently, he gave her lessons, un cours de polissonnerie, which opened up a province of the mind where she must disport herself secretly, since she was not, he warned, to let anyone know what she knew. Be sure and remember that, Danièle. It’s our secret, private, just between us! Then he left.

  And began sending her coltish letters. All about ambushes and skirmishes and swiftly built bridges which, as often as not, got swept away at once, toppling ‘our men’ into rivers from which there was no rescuing them. They were not, of course, Belgians but locally recruited tribesmen who fell like ninepins. Arms and legs could be seen swirling past in the boiling current. Enemies’ heads were delivered in baskets. Bodies with ‘steaks cut from their thighs and upper arms’ strewed pathways and Philibert’s prose. She guessed that he was using her as a witness and his letters as a diary. She must not, he admonished, throw them away. They were also, she understood, an effort to continue their bedroom intimacies, a purging of his own horror, an attempt to keep her close. He was expanding the cours de polissonnerie, sharing – but the traffic was too much one way, and what had she to tell in return? Nothing. Nothing comparable. She couldn’t even bring herself to comment, since the hot confidences had cooled when they reached her. They were months old and, for all she knew, came from a dead man. Dead and maybe chopped into steaks? So she read them uneasily, searching for the man behind the playmate whom she knew. It was surely too late now for play? His airy irresponsibility upset her badly. Why couldn’t they build proper bridges? Did he feel no concern for ‘our men’ when they fell off them? Or for the ‘friendlies’ or ‘faithfuls’ whose fate seemed still more precarious and whose habit of eating each other when fate st
ruck he recorded with a shock which came close to gusto. How reconcile all this with his enthusiasm for ‘our civilizing mission’?

  Once – no, several times! – she dreamed that he was eating her, and woke up shaking. In the dark this seemed more memory than dream. By the time she had found matches and struck them, it had grown less compelling but still hung, like a shadow, in her mind. She had been brought up with rigid propriety, then given a playful cours de polissonnerie. The forbidden had become a joke. And now there were these letters. So was anything truly taboo? Even her religious practices now seemed strange, even the Eucharist, that pallid, paper-thin and ‘tran-substantiated’ substance. What old, sly, bowdlerized lore did it really commemorate?

  Shocked to find herself thinking such thoughts, Danièle began to fear that the time spent nursing her mother had spoiled her for matrimony, and that almost three years of taking decisions had quite banished her readiness to let a husband think for her. Her docile airs had misled Philibert who, sooner or later, was in for a bad surprise. Meanwhile, so was she.

  For the scandal of the duel did not go away and the newspapers which continued to air the thing claimed that Philibert had wilfully provoked his opponent. Baited and run him down as if practising a blood sport, wrote the indignant journalists. The words ‘bloodthirsty’ and ‘barbarian’ left her shaken. Moreover – she only saw this now – the cours de polissonnerie had left her unenlightened as to what it – what Philibert? – was all about.

  Was it love that she felt for this man, she wondered? Or fear or pity? Her doubts were licensed by knowing that he might not come back. Mortality was high – his letters made this clear – in the swamps where hostile natives waited up to their necks, heads hidden behind some tuft or tree until the Belgian-led column appeared, its men holding their guns above their heads to keep them dry and offering a perfect target to spears. Small, insidious irritations could be lethal too: hookworm, mosquitoes, boils that never healed and the constant hot humidity which caused belts and boots to mould. The odds against his survival seemed greater by the day. It was even possible that she was by now a widow!

  Shocked by the wily stealth of her own resignation, she shook herself into action and began, first, to say prayers for him, then, so as to reinforce the prayers’ protection, to invent benign superstitions. She would will his safe return. By sheer attentiveness and concern, she would magic him back. One of her practices was to try visualizing his entire face precisely and all at once. This was difficult, for her memory’s straining made the face shimmer like a reflection in water, so that some parts shone too brightly and others blurred or disappeared. It was as if moths had nibbled holes in it. Or leprosy! Oh dear! Oh Philibert! In flurries of pity, she moved her would-be remedial scrutiny over his poor pocked image, trying to heal each wounded section as it steadied. She was engaged in doing this, when someone knocked at her window. On the street side of the carriage, hidden from the group at the gate, a small woman wearing a hat with a grey veil was trying to attract her attention. Danièle opened the window and the woman raised the veil. Her hands were shaking. She looked about thirty.

  ‘Madame,’ she begged in a low, furtive voice, ‘forgive my importuning you. I wouldn’t if I weren’t desperate. Will you let me into your carriage for a few minutes? Please. I need to get inside the villa to see my husband, but the doctors won’t let me. He is a patient. I need to talk to him for a moment. Just a tiny moment! If he is as mad as they say he is, I shall leave. I cannot get past the servants on foot, but if I were with you ...’ Gloved fingers pressed the cold window and the woman’s breath was white.

  She talked on, and Danièle thought, ‘No!’ Then: ‘Why no? She is not mad. She is not an inmate here, or if she is, she is trying to get in, not out!’ Then, ‘Be careful!’ Then, ‘What can she do to me with all these people within earshot?’ By now she had opened the door.

  The woman stepped in quickly, closed it, then, flattening herself against the carriage upholstery, shrank as unobtrusively as she could, into the corner furthest from Danièle. She was respectably dressed, pretty, a little faded, decent, but clearly neither a lady nor a Bad Woman. Danièle felt exhilarated by her own daring and soon found her exhilaration turning to benevolence. The woman began to talk of her three children, of how it was for their sake that she had been so forward, and of how God would reward Danièle for her charity.

  Danièle’s benevolence flinched a little. Talk of God’s rewards was apt to herald further requests, but, when none forthcame, it struck her that she was performing a corporal work of mercy and laying up divine indulgence for her own and Philibert’s needs. This was a spiritual investment and insurance against possible ill fortune. Good, she thought, good, and graciously introduced herself. She was Madame d’Armaillé.

  Her guest said she was Joséphine Litzelmann and that the man she aimed to see was her children’s father, Monsieur Guy de Maupassant who, to be quite honest, Madame, was not precisely her husband. This revelation was made in a low and breathy tone and only half caught Danièle’s attention, for something was at last happening outside, where the servants, who had been stamping about and slapping themselves to keep warm, were now gathered close to the gate. A tall young man, who had just arrived from the villa, had climbed up it and, with the porter’s help, managed to disentangle Uncle Hubert, ease his foreleg back over the crest of the gate and get him first halfway down, then all the way. Moments later Danièle’s uncle and his rescuer were in the carriage, taking up most of the room, smelling of mud, rubber and damp trousers, exclaiming, rubbing cold hands – Uncle Hubert’s were quite blue – and describing with zest how they had managed the descent. Neither took exception to Joséphine Litzelmann’s presence. If they noticed it at all, the young man, who introduced himself as Adam Gould, probably took her for a member of Uncle Hubert’s party, while Uncle Hubert must think she worked here. They tapped a message to the coachman: drive on in. So in he drove them through the opened iron gates, spattering crisp, confetti-like gusts of ice flakes from under the carriage wheels and smuggling the anxious little woman into the villa. She had again lowered her veil and, as the carriage drew up to let them out, Danièle felt a cold, cotton-gloved hand clutch her own in a tight, nervous grasp.

  ***

  Monsieur Guy’s manservant saw them arrive. He was again watching from a corridor window, for Monsieur Guy would not let him into his room and seemed to feel no gratitude for the years of care François had lavished on his health – all those lovingly prepared eggnogs, purées and feather-light custards, all the concern and vigilance seemed forgotten. Well, if he must. François could put up with that. He could put up with anything if only his patience would help cure his master, who was a man in a thousand: a great, good, generous, amusing man whose needs François understood! As he had told Dr Blanche, his master’s mother agreed that her son would be better off if only they could get him home.

  ‘Not home to her,’ he had spelled it out for the doctor when they spoke this morning, ‘home to me. She is far too far away. In Nice. And she’s not well herself. But our flat in the rue Boccador is restful. I have it spick and span now – more so than when Monsieur Guy was there, for he lived like a tornado, wet towels everywhere, stacks of papers all over the place. Now that I have it ready and welcoming, it would surely soothe his spirit to be among his own things, poor gentleman.’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘My poor François, he needs constant supervision. Else he might try suicide again. That wouldn’t help his mother’s health, now would it?’

  François detected a reproach: he, for all his devotion, had not been able to keep a constant watch.

  ‘Of course,’ a warder confided later, while he and François drank their mid-morning bowls of milky coffee in the kitchen, ‘suicide is the doctor’s great bogy. Especially by famous patients. Those journalists out there are on the watch for just that. A good story ...’

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Well,’ the warder removed the skin from his café au lai
t and laid it in a shrivelled puddle on his plate, ‘your master wrote stories, didn’t he? For money? Some, it seems, were about people he’d read about in the papers. So if he were now to be in one, it would be a case of the biter bitten, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  François grimaced. He could not think of Monsieur Guy as a biter. He thought of dogs. He thought of a pony biting the one in front of it – gnyam! Full in the buttocks. Rolling back its wicked lip and snapping wasp-yellow teeth. Those were biters, not Monsieur Guy whose high spirits shed – well, used to shed – radiance on whatever he touched. Whether he was showing you how to prepare for a boat-trip, make lead bullets for pistol-practice, exercise his pretty gun dog, or restock the aviary in his Norman garden, the task became a pleasure. ‘It’s fun, you’ll see!’ was how he would introduce a new one. And, sure enough, you often found yourself enjoying it. Life brightened around him. Everyone said so. Even the tradesmen who supplied his food read his stories. Even the butcher. Why, last week when this man heard the news about poor Monsieur, he’d had to dry his eyes, while his wife marvelled, ‘It’s the first time I’ve seen him cry.’ As for the stories, François himself had had a finger in several. He’d learned how to reconnoitre and ferret out facts about an interesting household and had heard Monsieur Guy tell his mother how useful he found his valet’s powers of observation. Did that make François a biter too? Did it? Irritably, turning from the warder, François smeared honey on a heel of bread, dipped it in coffee and bit into it. Gnyam! Golden honey-eyes floated in the bowl. It was his own honey. Intending it for Monsieur Guy, he had made a special trip to the market to find the girl who brought it up from Provence. Monsieur always used to say that eating it brought back the fragrance of thyme and fennel and the high times he enjoyed whenever he moored his yacht near Cannes, and society ladies came to visit. Today though he had screamed that he couldn’t eat the honey because the bees had gathered it from digitalis: foxglove, a poisoned source.