Mrs Midnight and Other Stories (8 page)

‘Young man, may I give you a little advice? Do not speak about things of which you are entirely ignorant. It may come to be that you
will
meet with Mike. You may meet with him sooner than you think, or sooner than you would like.’

I noticed that Fafner and Fasolt had heard what the Contessa said, and even they seemed shocked.

IV

After supper at St Germain, I usually retired to work or read, but once or twice I stayed to see what the I.P.H. devotees got up to. There were no ‘meetings’, but there were various social gatherings, some rather dull music making, and there were ‘lectures’. These were not, as one would have expected, some expert giving a talk on an I.P.H. topic. Instead a number of people would gather in a room where an old-fashioned reel to reel tape recorder had been set up with speakers. At a given moment an I.P.H. leader would say a few words of introduction and switch on the tape.

We would then hear ‘Mike’, as he was invariably called, speaking. They were long rambling discourses, obviously spoken impromptu, full of phrases like ‘listening to our higher selves’, ‘treading the path of spiritual awareness’, or ‘uniting in a single consciousness’, and, to me, quite unbearably tedious. Mike’s voice was dry and precise, the accent New England American, the cadences monotonous and repetitive. There was a certain hypnotic quality to his speech, so that after a while the listeners became very still, their expressions vacant, peaceful in an empty kind of way. Even I felt that I dared not move until the homily had come to an end. Sometimes, after the briefest of intervals to change the tape, another of these ‘lectures’ would be played, but I usually contrived to escape before I was compelled to hear any more. I remember that as I came out of one of these events with the devotees I heard one of them say:

‘I think I really met with Mike in that lecture tonight.’

Usually those introducing the ‘lectures’ would give you the date at which the recording had been made. No date later than 1987 was ever given.

By ten o’clock virtually all activity at the St Germain Palace had ceased and the I.P.H. people were making their way quietly to bed. I followed their example since there seemed to be no other options, but, towards the end of my second week there the June weather became sultry, and I restless.

One night I had retired early but found I could not sleep. At eleven I got up and went to the window to see that a full moon was shining on Lac Leman, many miles below me. I could even just make out the glimmering silver turrets of Chillon. My room was stuffy, even with the French windows open, so I decided to get dressed again and go for a walk in the moonlight.

The polished hotel corridors were silent and empty. Behind the innumerable bedroom doors which lined the passageways I could hear the occasional dull snore, but nothing else. The big public rooms were lit by dim yellow bulbs that barely gave me enough light to see my way. I had decided not to brave the guardian at the reception desk and ask for a key to let me out of the hotel, but instead to walk in the hotel’s own spacious terraced gardens, with their fine view of the lake.

There were many doors leading out from the reception rooms onto the terraces, but every one of them had been locked. This enraged me. I began to search for an exit—even a half-open window, or a fire escape would do—that would let me out of this damned place.

The St Germain Palace is huge and seemed to me even vaster in the half-dark. I went up and down staircases, along echoing passages, through lounges and reception chambers that I had never seen before, all dimly lit, all furnished with the same deadly opulence. I could find no way out. Once, on an upper floor, I came across a fire exit, but it was padlocked.

I had come down a flight of stairs in the far eastern corner of the hotel, an area I had never visited before, and entered a reception area on the ground floor where all the furniture was covered in white dust sheets. The moon shone through great picture windows, silvering these uneasy shapes, making them look like a range of snow-clad Alps. I noticed that in the far corner of this room there was a wrought iron railing and a flight of steps leading downwards. I guessed that it might take me to a basement from which I could possibly gain access to one of the hotel’s lower terraces.

I descended the steps to find myself in a wide, curving, brightly lit passageway. The walls were white and naked of ornament, the floor was of highly polished flesh-coloured linoleum. I could see no doors until I had moved out of sight of the stairs, and then I saw a pair of large ornate portals of dark oak, with great iron rings for handles, like the entrance to a church. I stopped in front of them, undecided and listened.

From beyond the doors I could hear a throbbing mechanical hum, and behind this hum a vast, echoing sound as if great gusts of air were being drawn in and then expelled. It was like listening to a giant breathing in an empty cathedral. I told myself that it was obviously the operation of some antiquated air-conditioning system, but still, it frightened me. I turned back and left the lower floor in a hurry.

I had just reached the top of the steps from the basement when I heard a voice in the gloom.

‘Who is that, please?’

I thought I recognised the voice of Hans. I said nothing, but began to thread my way through the dust-sheeted furniture as casually as I could pretend. A torch flashed in my face.

‘Who is that, please?’

I said: ‘ “It is I, Hamlet the Dane!” ’ Normally, I hate facetiousness, but the occasion seemed to call for it.

‘What are you doing here at this hour, please?’

‘I might ask you the same question.’

‘Please, do not play games. I ask what are you doing?’

‘I just wanted a walk on the terrace, but all the bloody doors to it are locked.’

‘Please, kindly do not use that language here. The doors are locked for very good reasons. There are many people who wish our organisation wrong. We must keep a guard against them at all times. That is why we ask all unauthorised people to be in their rooms by ten o’clock.’

‘I see.’

‘While you are our guest, we would like you to have the courtesy to respect the few rules of our little establishment. Please go to your room.’

I might have argued the toss, but I was suddenly very weary of him and his ridiculous I.P.H. I began to walk rapidly away from him.

‘One moment!’

I stopped. ‘What now?’

‘Did you go down to the under-floor?’

‘No. Why?’

‘No matter. Now please go to your room.’

V

From that moment onwards I am sure I was being watched all the time. It did not worry me too much; in fact it amused me. I suspect that the King had noticed that he too was being kept under surveillance, but he said nothing. We began to establish a relationship, and a certain degree of trust, because he realised that I had a real interest in his story. Once he said to me: ‘These people at the I.P.H., they are good people, but they have no idea of what it is to be a king.’

Our trips to consult the archives in Lausanne became frequent and more unscheduled. Suddenly, he would say: ‘We go to Lausanne’, and we would go. On at least two occasions we were followed there by Fasolt in a black Mercedes. At the same time the Contessa increased her demands on him to ‘lead a meeting’, or ‘Join us in a very important meeting’. Once or twice the King actually refused her. When this happened in my presence the Contessa would always throw me a look, as if I were the sole cause of his backsliding.

By the end of the third week I had roughed out a first chapter dealing with King Kyril’s family and very early childhood. The King seemed delighted. He was particularly fascinated by the way I had managed to find an autobiographical voice which was authentically his own, but managed to veil the more tedious side of his personality.

It had surprised me that during all this time Princess Helen had not been in touch. I had sent her the odd postcard, but there had been no reply. One afternoon when we were at the flat in Lausanne, the Princess rang up. I left the room but I could tell that the conversation between father and daughter was amicable, almost lively.

That evening I went for a stroll outside the hotel after dinner. I noticed that though I was strenuously watched inside its precincts, I was generally not followed beyond them. I had taken to going to the little
Café de la Gare
in the nearby village of St Germain and having a coffee and a cognac, sometimes two. Alcohol of any kind, of course, was forbidden at the St Germain Palace.

It was a fine night and I had delayed my return until the last moment. The sun had set behind the mountains but the sky was still light, a perfect cloudless violet colour filled with sharp stars. I smelt the pine trees and listened to the tranquil, omnipresent clanking of cowbells.

I arrived back at the hotel as the St Germain church was tolling the hour of ten o’clock. An industrious I.P.H. worker with a prosthetic leg was just about to lock the front doors to the hotel, and I had to bang on the glass to be let in.

The Contessa di Bartori was standing in the entrance hall, drumming her fingers on the reception desk. When she saw me she did something which she had never done before: she smiled at me. It was not a reassuring experience. I noticed for the first time that her legs appeared to be of an unequal length and that she wore a built up surgical boot on her right leg. Perhaps the whole foot was artificial.

‘Ah! There you are at last,’ she said, as if I had been late for an appointment. ‘Come! I think we must talk.’

She led me to a little private sitting room off the main hall. In it was a young couple sitting on a sofa, engaged in earnest conversation. Though not a very attractive pair, they were somehow transfigured, as all lovers are, by their very obvious mutual devotion. With a look and a gesture the Contessa managed to dismiss them from the room. I noticed, as he passed me on his way out, that the young man was missing two fingers from his left hand.

When we had sat down the Contessa said: ‘I believe I owe you an apology—’ She raised her hand as if to forestall any objection from me, but, receiving none, she continued. ‘I believe I have harboured unkind thoughts of you and for that I must ask your forgiveness.’ Again, she paused, no doubt expecting some sort of response, but I stayed silent. I was too bewildered to make any coherent reply. ‘You see, we here have a great love and concern for King Kyril. I know he is very close to Mike’s thoughts at all times. We believe he has a great potential as a force for the Psychic Health of the world. What could a nation achieve if it were ruled by one who is himself ruled by the Absolute Principles of Psychic Health! You understand me? That is why we are concerned for the King that he is devoting not enough time to the Work and too much time to this . . . biography. I have no doubt that it is very interesting, but we here at I.P.H. are not concerned with the past. It is the future we care for, the future of the world. What could be more important than to work for the future Psychic Health of all nations?’

I said: ‘But how can you work successfully for the future if you do not understand the past?’

The Contessa grimaced. ‘Ah! Yes. No doubt that is a very clever and intellectual remark. I do not know. But we here at the I.P.H. we do not go in so much for intellectual smartness; we are very practical down-to-earth people. We do not live in some little academic ivory tower. That is why—you must forgive me —I do not use any fancy words; I speak my mind straight out, with no beating about any bushes. You understand me?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘That is excellent. This is why I believe it would be better for us all—but in my heart I am thinking particularly of the King—if this project of the biography—’

‘Autobiography—’

‘Please! Have the kindness not to interrupt. . . . I say, if this project were to be put away for a while in favour of more important work for the I.P.H. I am sure you could continue your researches elsewhere, but I do not believe it is suitable that you should take up so much of our valuable time here. You understand?’

I told the Contessa that it was not for me to decide whether or not the King continued with his autobiography. I was employed by him as his researcher and assistant, and it would be wrong of me to revoke my contract. I was perhaps being slightly dishonest because no such document had been signed, though my agent told me he was ‘working on it’. At this the Contessa began to crack her ring-encrusted knuckles with anger and frustration.

‘Yes, yes! But you are a free agent, are you not? Are you a man, or are you a little mouse?’

‘In that case,’ I replied, ‘my decision as a free agent is to go on helping King Kyril with his autobiography.’

The Contessa is a woman who has strong passions, but a commensurate capacity for self control. For several seconds I saw her wrestle with herself, while her withered, bony hands wrestled with each other.

Finally, she said: ‘Come! There is someone you must meet with. Now!’ She took my wrist in a formidably strong grasp and led me from the room. Through the dim landscape of the hotel’s vast reception rooms she took me, dragged me almost, until we found ourselves in that dust-sheeted lounge where Hans had caught me several nights before.

‘You know this place, I believe. Come! We go beneath.’

We descended the stairs to that strange, curving passageway. I think I may have begun to suspect something when I saw Fafner and Fasolt standing on either side of those great oak gothic doors. The Contessa nodded to them and they began to move towards me. It is at this point that my memory fails me.

VI

My next recollection is of a bright lamp shining into my eyes. I was lying on my back naked, strapped down by my arms and legs to something like an old operating table covered in rubber sheeting. It squeaked as I tried to shift my body. Around me I felt as much as heard a humming vibration which seemed to permeate everything, and behind it, as before, the giant breathing.

I lifted my head, but only for a moment because it made me sick and dizzy to do so. Those few seconds were sufficient to allow me to see the blood flowing through catheters that had been plunged into the arteries of both my arms. I realised now why I felt so weak, and that I would be getting weaker by the minute as the blood ran from me.