Sabine (19 page)

We are entering a dangerous place, an arena full of predators, maybe even a trap, but my trust in him is complete. As we mount the stairs, he and I in front, Christopher following with his parents (who look drab in comparison and out of place, having had no time to change), and Aimée in sequins twittering along behind, I think to myself that if he were to die, if my father were to die, I would feel as if there were no floor beneath my feet, no ground, no supporting surface at all; I would stagger and I would fall for ever. Quite apart from this rescue mission, which is hopefully a one-off, who would undo life's lesser knots for me when they snarled? Particularly the red-taped ones which scare me almost as badly. Who would check my bank statements? Who would know what debentures were? Who would speak to solicitors and lawyers? What if I get into debt and need to raise a mortgage? How on earth do you raise a mortgage and what do you do with it once it is risen? Last time I saw him, my heart full of Sabine, I thought I could do without him, but I see now I was wrong. The opposite is the
case: without him I would lose everything, Sabine included.

I squeeze his hand and he squeezes mine back and whispers: What did the earwig say when he went over the cliff? (He loves daft jokes like that. A mean old Count. My enema the douche. Nicholas II was bizarre.)

Earwigo, I reply, all dutiful and conniving again, as if I had never been otherwise.

Earwigo, then.

And we step through the portals of the Vampires' Castle, under the noses of a second pair of unhappy torch-bearers – no, halberd-bearers in this instance – and into the fray.

Polanski's film with the famous ball scene came out years later, so I can't have been reminded of it then, but my mind now serves me up a false and vivid impression that I was. There were no mirrors to betray us, all wall-space being given over to those ubiquitous gory Gobelin hangings of the chase – a
galerie de chasses
and not
de glaces
– and yet I remember clearly, or think I do, that my first act on entering was to look round for one in terror, convinced that, as it was for Polanski's hapless vampire-hunters, it would be the medium of our downfall. Why this pastiche? Why this confusion? Simple, because in common with the film's characters – no matter how much later on I saw it – I had that same feeling of nakedness, of exposure, of being part of a tiny camouflaged minority whose
cover may at any moment be blown. ‘All eyes turned to look at us' would be a slipshod way of putting it; eyes don't turn anyway, heads do, but as our little group joined the fringe of the assembly, there was a discernible swivelling of attention in our direction. I caught several haughty looks, disparaging but curious all the same. What-has-the-cat-brought-in looks, I am tempted to call them, seeing that it was Aimée who effectively ushered us into the room, only now there is no more time for word games, we are drawing too close to the quick.

Rapid assessment of numbers was not as then my forte. It was not a big gathering though, that much I could tell – thirty-five, forty people, fifty at the outside. Their ages? Well, of course that's a difficult one to establish, always, but I would say, trying to look back without the interference of hindsight, that what struck me even then was the middling nature of the age factor: no old people and, apart from Christopher and myself and the de Vibrey offspring, very few young either.

Middling, too, was almost every other aspect of their appearance. I'd been keyed up for the Grand Vampire Jamboree, and was still hanging on to my father's hand on that account, much as if, like Theseus with his ball of string, my safe delivery from danger depended on this link alone, but after a few seconds' observation I found myself shaking free quite spontaneously in order not to look foolish in his eyes. Or anyone else's for that matter. What
had I expected? Exactly what my film-fed imagination had led me to expect: i.e. first and foremost glamour, style, no matter how crummy such details as hemlines and fingernails might turn out to be on close inspection. I had pictured to myself reds, purples, silks, velvets, boas, shawls, the works. Colours in superabundance: long amber cigarette holders resting on vermilion lips, wings of peacock-blue eyeshadow over black-rimmed bloodshot eyes. That was the hallmark of the vampire community, surely? Their dash, their campness, their love of the baroque.

Here, instead, was provincial
comme il faut
France. A parcel of trim cocktail-dressed women, sleek and black and uniform as starlings, interspersed with, rather on the poultry side, a sprinkling of dowdy Mme de Vallemberts in beige brocade plus pearls. The male contingent even drabber. Dr la Forge and two dozen or so replicas of same – professionals, notaries, notables – hardly noticeable at all in their dark crocheted ties and grey pinstripe suits. Monochrome were it not for, on this or that sober lapel, the minute red button of the
Légion d'Honneur
bleeping its discreet signal of distinction. True, Aimée's sequins added a bit of glitter, and the Marquis was wearing a velvet smoking jacket, but it was matt and mole-coloured and gave off not a spark of panache until you got close enough to see the material. And even that looked too new for real elegance.

The Marquis clasped my father in a politician's bear hug, empty and showy (or so it seemed to me), making urgent signals with his eyebrows to the Marquise over my father's shoulder.
Le cher Miqui, le cher Miqui. Enfin, ici, chez nous.
I could well imagine both husband and wife referring to him in private as a parvenu. When, after greeting Christopher's parents and granting another half-hug to Aimée, who nearly climaxed in consequence, he turned his attention to me, I bowed my head in apparent modesty, but in fact in order to avoid another nose-tap. Anything but that, you old smoothie, I thought, even my jugular but not that.

We are so delighted to have you all with us on this … this … ah, well, I'll save my oratory till we come to the toasts – this very
special
evening. Is that not so, my dear?

The Marquise, who had joined us with a rapid glide after the semaphore business with the eyebrows, nodded and bared a set of regular and pretty teeth that didn't deceive me for an instant. To be that rude and that polite together must take, literally, centuries of practice. She extended fingertips all round, blowing a tiny long-distance kiss to my father when she came to him; it was a wonder it didn't freeze his cheek.

So glad you could make the voyage. You poor English with your currency regulations – it would depress me
de manière folle.
No shopping in Paris,
no skiing in the winter – how do you manage, how do you manage?

We manage thanks to kind, hospitable friends like yourselves. My father slid these words in quickly, suppository fashion: too early yet to bring up the racehorse deal but no harm preparing the way. I had been embarrassed at the thought of hearing him struggle along in French, but really he spoke the language passably well. Which came as a relief because embarrassment would have weakened our position; with these creatures, whether vampires or just snooty fuddy-duddies looking down their Gallic noses at us, we needed to dominate for comfort.

Ah, Miqui, toujours le galant.

Etcetera, etceterbla. The evening got under way and proceeded on its stuffy and quite uneventful course. Eats of a dainty but slightly papier-mâché variety were carried around by white-gloved waiters. Among them I recognised some of the hunt-servants: they had fed the hounds, maybe the horses too, and now they were feeding us. Be thankful therefore for the gloves. My legs started tingling from standing on one spot, and my jaw began to have that achy feeling brought about by too much inane smiling. Talking might have helped to relax the muscles, but there was nobody friendly to talk to – except Christopher, and he was still giving me the pariah treatment. I had entered the room half paralysed by fear; I risked leaving it
almost totally paralysed by boredom. (Leaving it, but when? When? Where
had
my father got to? Ah, there he was, talking to Christopher's mum. He looked as despairing as I felt, why wasn't he picking up my distress signals so we could bolt?)

Roland was present, as we had anticipated, wedged in a far corner with a couple of aldermen or suchlike, looking dutiful to the point of preppy, so I didn't even have the worry of his whereabouts to keep me on edge. He'd given me another of those strange looks of his when he saw me – sweet, wistful, almost pitying – it made me think with a twinge of discomfort that I still hadn't really figured him out at all. We were rivals. Rivals for Sabine, and I stood slap in his path. Last night I had thwarted him, outwitted him, and tonight with my reinforcements I would do worse: he ought to resent me, surely? But no, there he was, all smiles and solidarity. Devious beast. Slippery, reptilian hybrid or whatever you could call him. My father would settle him, though. It was enough to look from one to the other and compare their stances – Roland's, poised, light, hesitant, rocking slightly from heel to toe; my father's, confidently planted on the ground – to realise that, wherever a future conflict between the two might take place, there was no question who would emerge from it victorious. Creature of the night versus man of the world. No contest even: the man of the world would win, hands down, feet down.

Rap, rap, rap. Interruption – so welcome that it felt like rescue at the time – came at length from one of the halberdiers, who had mounted a kind of dais at the back of the gallery and was now banging the staff of his halberd on the floorboards, requesting silence in a booming voice.

Silence took some time coming. Nobody appeared willing to heed the command of a social inferior. After the surprise of the first spate of bangs everyone just shrugged and went on talking – that much louder to cover the din – and it was not until the Marquis himself stepped on to the dais and instigated a pleading action with a decidedly personal touch that gradually, starting with those nearest to him and then fanning out ripple-wise to the rest, quiet was established and his voice became audible.

My friends, he began, those few of you who can read my handwriting will already know why we are gathered here this evening, heh, heh, but it is my pleasure nonetheless to announce to you the reason with the due touch of ceremony that such news deserves. The more so because in the meantime another piece of good news, of a more private nature, has added itself to the first, giving us double cause for celebration. I will begin with this second announcement. Unfortunately, owing to the dictates of convalescence – by which I mean the dictates of our dear Doctor here, so punctilious, so
rigoureux
… (there followed a
moment's pause as the Marquis sought out and indicated a perspiring la Forge among the listeners, and waited for laughter that was not forthcoming). Unfortunately, he resumed, neither the charming young lady concerned, nor her equally enchanting mother, could be here tonight in person to share our joy, but they are here with us in spirit. My son Roland will be joining them shortly and will convey to them the
félicitations,
I am sure, of us all. Together with … (At this he held up his left hand and made a stroking gesture of his ring finger with the right, bringing from his audience, all except me, a chorus of dutiful Ahs.) Because, yes, indeed, my friends, you have guessed correctly, this is the announcement I have to make on behalf of myself and my wife and which makes us both so happy and proud: the betrothal of our son Roland to Mademoiselle Marie Sabine de la Cour d'Houanche.

I felt as if someone had ripped out my innards. Empty inside, and yet full of pain to come. The man was lying, he must be. They were cheating, all of them, they must be. Sabine would never have consented to an engagement – with no matter whom – without discussing her intention with me first. Or telling me about it, at the very least. In her right mind she would never have consented to an engagement, full stop. It was all a lie, a put-up job, there was not a word of truth in anything the Marquis said.

Then I remembered Ghislaine's smile that morning when speaking of the
réception,
and the
announced pain flooded in with a whoosh, almost winding me with its violence. It was true without a doubt. Ghislaine knew and she was thrilled to bits about it, and she hadn't dared tell me and no wonder. When could it have happened? When could this terrible thing have happened? Not today for sure – Roland hadn't been to see Sabine yet. Yesterday then. Yesterday when she was a helpless doll. The doll had got engaged, not Sabine. The doll had been pressed into an engagement.

Around me everyone was clapping and making buzzing noises of congratulation. The footmen/huntsmen were whirling in, trays of champagne glasses held high above their heads. On his platform the Marquis was waving his hands around again, trying to indicate that he hadn't yet finished what he had to say, but with scant success. The buzz grew and the glasses were grabbed and filled and raised and emptied and refilled. I stood there in misery, explanations and excuses flashing across my mind and then fizzling out like spent fireworks: I rejected all of them. Didn't even deign to follow their course. Oh, I knew with my reason that Sabine was beyond blame, but who can reason on the rack? Whatever comforting slant I might attempt to put on it, the bare, unalterable fact remained: she had ultimately chosen him, Roland, in preference to me, and – far graver treachery in my view – had not so much as bothered to inform me of her choice. Indeed, she had done worse: that morning when I had kissed
her, she had actually turned away in order to prevent me from reading the truth on her face, knowing as well as I did that her eyes could never lie, closed lids and all. Hence Roland's pity – he could afford it.

I was so numbed, so stunned, the hurt of Sabine's silence had cut so deep, that even when the room fell quiet enough again for the Marquis to be heard, the remainder of his words were lost to me. I could see, and I could hear, and to outward appearances I could still function, but inside me some vital mechanism of comprehension seemed to have jammed. It was like watching a movie in an unknown foreign language. (And who knows, maybe it was better that way too. A jab of anaesthetic given me by a merciful Nurse Chance.)