Curtain Call (23 page)

‘Oh yes. My father I recall was a little . . . bemused. He had asked me to write about Vienna and I had presented a piece of art criticism. But as I explained to him – is it not more useful to study one thing well than to cover a dozen things superficially?'

‘Did that satisfy him?'

‘I suppose it must have done. The next time I saw the piece was in the pages of a local newspaper. Although,' he added, narrowing his eyes, ‘I do not recall being
paid
for it.'

Stephen laughed, and said, ‘So you're a writer?'

‘No, no. In my younger days I was a musician –'

The conversation was interrupted at this moment by a shout of mingled greeting and relief from a rotund, wheezing gent, who took the vacant seat next to László and immediately enjoined the wine waiter to fill his glass. He drained it quickly, and, after a fleeting grimace at its taste, called for another.

‘James, good evening,' said László, then turned to the guest on his other side. ‘I think perhaps you know Mr Stephen Wyley –'

‘We've never met,' said Jimmy, forgetting his bogus claim of acquaintance a few weeks before and leaning across László to shake Stephen's hand. ‘James Erskine.'

‘Mr Balázsovits has just been telling me about Parmigianino. For a musician he knows a great deal about art.'

‘
Musician
,' said Jimmy, with a sidelong look. ‘Is that what he called himself? I suppose he's also told you he knew Brahms – in fact he once held the door open for him.'

László frowned at him. ‘As I explained to Mr Wyley I was a musician in my youth –'

‘And now you're a piano teacher,' he declared, for Stephen's benefit. Jimmy's meanness was born of irritation: he had specifically requested a seat next to Wyley and somehow it had been misassigned to László, who wouldn't even have been invited had Tom not cried off the day before. (A severe headache, he had claimed over the telephone.) He looked around at the other diners, expecting to recognise a few faces, and failing. The starter had just preceded his own arrival – fried sprats – and he forked in a mouthful.

‘Ugh, greasy,' he muttered.

László, who had already cleared a plate of these dainties, offered to take Jimmy's from him, and was soon making light work of them. He ate as one who feared this meal might be his last, which, given his precarious finances, was not an unreasonable anxiety. Stephen watched in barely concealed surprise. László, catching his expression, looked abashed and said, ‘They're very good – better than what I'm accustomed to. I often take my supper at a fried-fish shop in Cable Street, near my lodgings, where the quantity is known to be –'

‘I'm sorry – Cable Street, you say?' The name had clanged on the air like a warning bell. Stephen leaned forward inquisitively. ‘Were you caught up in that business the other week?'

It took László a moment to realise what ‘business' Stephen had meant. ‘Oh! No, indeed, I was not.'

‘But with the blackshirts and the police and whatnot, you must have
heard
it at least?'

László shook his head. ‘Alas, not even that! My neighbours kindly allow me the use of their piano on a Sunday, and while the hand of history was close by I myself was practising Chopin in their back parlour.'

‘Good Lord,' said Stephen.

‘Yes, it came as quite a surprise the next day. I am reminded of the story of Louis XVI on the day the Bastille fell. He returned from a day's hunting and wrote in his diary,
Rien
!'

‘Which Chopin?' asked Jimmy.

‘Oh, Ballade Number 1.'

‘No wonder you couldn't hear anything. All that
presto con fuoco
.'

Stephen had noticed that the man seated opposite him was attending to their conversation quite closely. He had a long scar down one cheek, and sat ramrod-straight in his chair. After a moment he recognised him as the man he had seen Carmody saluting on the steps of the British People's Brigade HQ. He couldn't remember his name. When their eyes briefly met Stephen gave him a provisional half-smile – the sociable minimum – and was ignored. It didn't bother him, for he sensed around the man a force field of brooding aggression he had no wish to engage. He also appeared to be drinking a great deal.

Jimmy, out of Stephen's earshot, was in heated whispering remonstration with László, who had dug in his heels over something. It continued, off and on, through the serving of braised pheasant with chestnut purée. The evening, which had begun at a hearty volume, was approaching a roar; even Carmody's boom had been drowned out. Only when László saw that their argument had left Stephen isolated did he rise from his chair and, with a little bow that blended apology with grievance, went off to the Gents – allowing Jimmy to pounce on the vacated seat. He had the air of a man who had just got his way.

‘Hope my friend wasn't boring you,' said Jimmy airily. ‘He means well, but he drones like a bagpipe.'

‘He wasn't boring me at all. In fact I was greatly enjoying his company.'

Jimmy, hearing a thin note of reproof, changed tack. ‘A friend told me that you're doing some work at the Nines.'

‘Yes, I've been hard at it. A mural. Are you a member there?'

‘No. The friend I mentioned once invited me to join, only to discover that there was a considerable amount of resistance to my election. Same thing happened with the Garrick. And I imagine I am eligible for blackballing at several other clubs around London.'

‘I'm sorry to hear it,' said Stephen leniently.

‘The critic's fate,' said Jimmy, trying a cavalier shrug. ‘It's probably to do with some idiot actor I once offended, extracting his little revenge.'

Stephen, realising only at that moment who Jimmy was, couldn't resist saying, ‘Perhaps you've come across a friend of mine. Nina Land?'

‘Of course. I've followed her with great interest, ever since
Fire in the Hole
.'

‘She'll be pleased to hear it.'

‘But let me ask you something,' said Jimmy, changing gears with a clank. ‘I dare say you're much in demand?'

‘I have a fair bit on, with one thing or another.'

‘Well, here's the thing. I turn sixty next year, and have been minded to mark it in some way. I now know what it should be. By an unforeseen stroke of good fortune I find myself this evening seated next to the very man I should choose for the job – if I may, the Van Dyck
de nos jours
!'

‘A portrait of yourself . . . I see.'

‘Well, they say nobody ever raised a statue to a critic, but I don't see why there shouldn't be an oil painting of one.'

Stephen looked steadily at him, wondering if his conceit was a kind of joke, a balloon to be popped with some self-deprecating remark. But Jimmy's expression was untouched by any humorous intent. Before he could reply he felt someone clap his shoulder, and turning he found Carmody beaming down at him.

‘Wyley! Been meaning to collar you – I wanted to thank you for that very generous cheque.'

Stephen would have preferred to keep his charity a private matter, but he supposed Carmody's loud expression of thanks was intended
pour encourager les autres
. A sudden loud crump made him flinch, and the flash of a camera bulb whited the air; the photographer had timed it to catch him in a handshake with Carmody. ‘When do you plan for the Marquess to reopen?' he asked.

‘Oh, all in good time,' said Carmody in a more confiding tone. ‘We've got a fine tailwind of support.' Surveying the vicinity of the table, he now gave a brief wave to the scar-faced man who had been watching Stephen. ‘Have you two gentlemen met? Stephen Wyley – William Joyce.'

Focusing somewhat blearily on this introduction, Joyce lifted his chin in acknowledgement. His well-spoken voice was at odds with his pugilistic aspect. ‘So you're a contributor, Mr Wyley?'

Stephen nodded. ‘Gerald here has been very, uh, persuasive. And the cause seems a good one.'

‘The best – the best,' replied Joyce in correction. ‘We must defend our great institutions. It is the British way.'

Stephen thought this rather grandiose language to use about the theatre, though drink had clearly stoked up his mood. At this moment László resumed his seat at the table next to Jimmy. His return had been noticed by Joyce, whose brow creased into an amused frown. ‘This fellow has been an object of curiosity to me all evening,' he said, as if László were some exotically plumed creature. ‘I would surmise from your accent that you are – Austrian?'

László gave a little shake of his head. ‘A close neighbour, sir – Hungarian. Though I was raised in this country.'

‘And your name?'

‘László Balázsovits.'

‘Balázsovits,' Joyce repeated, with an emphasis on the final consonants. ‘A Jew, then.'

‘Again, raised in this country,' said László with perfect civility.

Carmody, who had witnessed these last exchanges in agitation, now spoke up. ‘Joyce, may I have a moment? – there are some others I'd like you to meet.'

A nasty daggered silence followed, then Joyce rose from the table. ‘Gentlemen,' he said, by way of excusing himself, and allowed Carmody to lead the way. Jimmy turned to László.

‘That was rather like watching the Gorgon turn on Perseus.'

‘A very drunken Gorgon at that,' said Stephen.

László, pleased by the attention, gasped out a laugh. ‘But Perseus cut off the head of Medusa, did he not? Our Gorgon remains unslain.'

‘I think it might be safer just to avoid his gaze,' said Jimmy, ‘else we might all be turned to stone.'

Stephen had followed Joyce's progress to a distant table, where several men had stood up to be introduced. Carmody was making no bones about presenting him as the guest of honour. With pudding served, diners were now stetching their legs about the room and firing up cigars.

Jimmy noticed Stephen glance at his watch, and thought he should seize his moment. ‘To return to our earlier conversation, Mr Wyley, I hope we can come to an arrangement regarding . . .'

Stephen nodded, understanding, and said, ‘I'm booked up for at least the next four months. Perhaps you should consult my gallery –'

‘I'd be delighted,' said Jimmy. He was not to be put off, and Stephen, in a sudden mood of weariness, said, ‘Did you know Millais once said that the only thing he enjoyed about portrait painting was putting the highlights on polished boots?'

‘Oh, I quite understand that,' said Jimmy. ‘The only thing I enjoy about writing is putting in the punctuation.'

The tables were being cleared, and the bar, located at the end of the long ballroom, was already thronged with men. Stephen thought it strange that the dinner, aside from Carmody's brief introduction, had ended without a single speech in support of the Marquess. He suggested a last drink, to which Jimmy and László both made eager agreement.

‘So Carmody tapped you for a contribution,' Jimmy said as they waited at the bar.

‘He has a way of making it impossible to refuse,' admitted Stephen, who noticed that László was still skulking around the table they had just left. ‘What's he doing?'

Jimmy let out a sigh of exasperation. ‘Oh, for heaven's – He's gathering up those discarded bread rolls to take home.'

Stephen flinched slightly. ‘Is he that – hard up?'

‘Afraid so. Hasn't a farthing to his name.'

‘But he was telling me of holidays abroad, and a house in, where was it, Regent Square?'

‘Years ago. His father lost all their money in some swindle. László has gone from being a pampered princeling to a virtual indigent within a generation. And yet' – his laugh was fond – ‘I don't know a more cheerful man.'

The object of their discussion was approaching, having cleared the bread basket. The pug-like face, stirred to delight by his recent haul, caused Stephen's heart to turn over. ‘Well then, that should be our toast – to cheerfulness.'

László, the paper bag bulging under his arm, was about to respond when, from a knot of men standing behind him, a hissing noise started up. It was led by a man whose company they had already entertained that evening. Stephen had heard the single muttered word bandied back and forth among them, and had tried to ignore it. The word, of course, was ‘Jew'.

Joyce had stepped forward, his face ablaze. He plucked László's bag of rolls from his hand and tipped out the contents. ‘This is the Jew from Hungary,' he announced to his party, ‘or rather, the hungry Jew, eating his way through the bread like a weevil.'

László, startled by this mocking disdain, explained, ‘Sir, the bread was left over on the table. Nobody was –'

‘The Lord giveth,' Joyce continued, not listening, ‘and the Jew taketh away. And still the lesson goes unheeded. Is it any wonder that the economy is in crisis when the country allows Jews to plunder its resources?'

A braying chorus of support had risen behind him. The mood in the room had become volatile and anticipatory, in a way that reminded Stephen of those moments before the foxhounds are let loose. Interposing himself between László and his persecutor, he said quietly, ‘You've had rather a lot to drink. I think you should offer this gentleman an apology, and then get out.'

At that, Joyce thrust his face close to Stephen's, so close he could see the long discoloured crease in the skin that some thug's knife had carved down his cheek. His reply came in a sour updraught of alcoholic heat. ‘I'd sooner hang than back down to a stinking Jew.'

Before he quite had command of himself Stephen reached for Joyce's collar and was pulling him within range of a butt to his face. But Joyce tore himself away and landed a flailing fist to the side of his opponent's head. This set-to might have escalated had not several diners jumped into the fray and, amid many fierce obscenities, contrived to separate them. It took some moments for the blood singing in Stephen's ears to cease; the coaxing, conciliatory voice that he eventually heard belonged to Carmody, who had led him out of the room and into the foyer.