Saturn Over the Water (5 page)

‘No, thank you,’ he said, looking more puzzled than annoyed.

‘My name’s Bedford.’

That didn’t pull his name out of him. ‘You wait here for Sir Reginald Merlan-Smith?’

‘Not exactly.’ I finished my sandwich.

He was still frowning over that when Nadia came in, through the wall of books as he had done. They talked hurriedly for a minute in what I took to be German, then he left the same way. She took a deep breath and turned to me. For a moment, half plastered though I was, I knew she saw me as just another irritating little problem, and it flashed into my mind then that I hadn’t had the right idea about her. By this time of course she had the witchery turned on again.

‘I’m not curious about him,’ I said. ‘But I’d like to know if I guessed right. He’s a Russian, isn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ She gave an impatient shrug. ‘You have a drink? Good! I think I will have some lemonade.’

‘Sorry!’ I poured some out for her. ‘Again, I’m not really curious. But what about those South Americans?’

She shrugged them away too. ‘Sir Reginald has business interests in Argentina. He is going there quite soon, perhaps to live. Already he has a house there.’

‘Are you going too?’ I tried to make it sound casual.

She looked at me for a moment, sorcery at work. ‘I may go for a little time. But you must not misunderstand. You think I am his mistress, don’t you?’

‘Well, I’ll tell you, Nadia. I did think so, but then when you got rid of that Russian and then looked at me, before you’d time to turn on your charm, you suddenly made me feel you were working and not being the girl friend.’

‘There are no girl friends here.’ She made a face. ‘He has other tastes – like so many of them.’

That wasn’t deliberate but a slip, and, as I realised afterwards, a very careless bad slip. But even if I’d known then what advantage to take of it, I don’t think she’d have given me the chance.

‘Yes, I have work to do,’ she said. She put her glass down and came over to me. ‘You are a man, I think – a real man.’

‘I hope so. But then there are plenty of us about, Nadia.’

‘No, not so many. Oh yes – where there is real work to do – but not in the London I know. You are not married – we found that out – but perhaps you have a mistress – girl friend – yes?’

‘Not at the moment.’

‘How sad for you!’

And that is when I did what she intended me to do, I think now, right from the moment she made that slip. And if she wanted to make me feel giddy and forgetful, she couldn’t have made a better move. It was a long kiss, with everything there is to know about sex implied in it, and if we’d had the place to ourselves I’d have carried her off at once to the nearest bedroom. Even so, and even in the woozy state I was in, I knew it was just a sexual performance on a very high level, and not what that kind of kiss ought to be, something between persons. Thighs, arms, lips and tongues may have been there but Nadia, Countess Slatina, whoever she was, wasn’t really there, and, to do him justice, neither was Tim Bedford.

‘So. I was right about you.’ She had stepped back now, and had sent fingers flashing up to her hair and down her dress, putting everything in order like lightning. She was pretending to be more out of breath than she actually was. There was a glint of irony in the grey-green depths of her eyes. ‘You are staying in London?’

‘No – damn it – I’m going away.’ What else could I say?

‘Then that is rather sad for me. Must you go? And if so – why – and where?’

‘I’m flying to New York on Saturday,’ I said.

‘Then you stay in New York? Because I go there too sometimes.’

‘No, I shan’t be there long.’

‘I think you are running away from me.’ She pretended to look forlorn and of course simply looked more seductive than ever. I moved forward, like so many iron filings to a magnet, but she held up a hand and backed away. ‘You are an artist not a business man,’ she said reproachfully. ‘You have not to keep on flying to places. Where will you go from New York?’

‘Well, I may have to go to Peru.’

She nodded, but the rest of her, eyes and all, was very still, I noticed. ‘You know someone in Peru – a woman perhaps?’

‘No, not a woman, Nadia.’ It was my turn to make a diversion. ‘And if I did, she wouldn’t be as beautiful as you are. I can’t imagine what work you do – ’

I left her an opening, but she merely closed it with a shrug. They were all tiny shrugs, by the way, mere ripples of her fine shoulders.

‘But you oughtn’t to have to do a damned thing,’ I went on. ‘Just sit about and look like an exquisite witch – wicked and wonderful.’

‘I am not wicked and I am not wonderful. That is only your imagination, though of course I like it. I am just a woman – ’

And that is when Sir Reginald came bustling in. He wasn’t really a bustler, being too smooth, too sure of himself, too well organised, but for once he bustled. I make the point because I had a definite feeling, there and then, that although he’d asked me to stay, now for some reason or other he was anxious to get rid of me. ‘Sorry, Bedford, though I’m sure you didn’t mind being kept here by Nadia.’

‘I loved it.’ I smiled at her. She smiled at me, then looked inquiringly at Sir Reginald, who returned a quick shake of the head that certainly didn’t suggest any boy friend relationship. She said good night, and left me with the impression that the work she said she had to do brought Sir Reginald in somewhere, but not directly as her employer.

He now took me to my Midland landscape, which was hanging in a corridor that led from the top of the stairs to the drawing-room. He said he’d always been curious about what I’d had in mind when I painted it. I told him, briefly and without any enthusiasm. As a rule I like talking about painting, especially late at night and after much drink, but I didn’t on that occasion, partly because he couldn’t keep a patronising tone out of his voice, but chiefly because I was dead certain he’d just invented that curiosity about my landscape. It simply didn’t ring true. Perhaps he’d originally wanted to talk to me about something else, and had then changed his mind. Perhaps he had some reason for wanting to leave me alone with Nadia. Perhaps he just enjoyed keeping fellows like me hanging about, waiting for him to have time for them. But I was ready to bet all I had that what he said about my picture was sheer bull’s wool. Short as I was, replying to him, impatience flickered in his eyes.

‘Thank you for asking me,’ I said, after we’d come out of the smoke screen. ‘It was a kind thought, giving me a chance to see those two pictures again.’

‘A pleasure.’ Then he looked at me solemnly. ‘I believe in you, Bedford. Ask them at the gallery. Keep on working, won’t you?’

‘I’d have to, even if I didn’t want to.’

‘It’s not quite what I meant, my dear fellow.’ As he tapped me on the shoulder, his eyes were bright slits. ‘Don’t let anything interfere with it. If you’re ever tempted to start running around, as so many of you fellows do nowadays, take hold of yourself and remember you’re a painter – and a good one. Nasty night out, so I have a car waiting for you. My responsibility – I have an account with ’em – so don’t try to do anything about it.’

By the time I was back in the studio, now beginning to look forlorn, I was recovering from the wines, spirits and Nadia. The first thing I did – and even now I don’t know why – was to go up the steps at the far end to my one small bedroom, because I knew I’d put that sheet of paper, the one with the names scribbled on it, in the top drawer, where I keep my passport and odds and ends with my ties and handkerchiefs. And it wasn’t there. I couldn’t remember leaving it anywhere else, but of course I looked, down in the studio where there’s an old table I sometimes dump papers on, then back in the bedroom, through the other drawers and in the pockets of my suits. When I couldn’t find it, I took another and more careful look at that top drawer, for when I stopped kidding myself I knew very well I’d left it there, along with the three letters that Sturge had given me, the one from Soultz at the Institute, and the two from the embassies. These letters were still there, but now I realised they weren’t exactly where I’d left them. Once I spotted this, I was absolutely positive about what had happened. While I’d been out, somebody had broken into the studio, no great feat, and had poked around in that drawer before making off with the sheet of names. The very thing that poor Isabel had entrusted me with, I’d gone and lost.

I was furious. We don’t really know ourselves. One part of me was surprised by the sudden uprush of anger coming from some other part of me. I think if I’d found the man there, rummaging through my drawer, I’d have half-killed him. (Perhaps this is a good place to mention that although I’m not tall, being just under five feet ten, I’m wide, thick and strong. In the army, at the end of the war when I was waiting to be demobbed, to go to the Slade, I went a long way boxing as a light heavy. I didn’t really care about boxing, but being brigade champion, supposed to be training, I was excused a lot of boring parades.) But this man had not only taken care not to be discovered, he’d also been very careful not to leave anything behind him, none of those cigarette stubs, matches, scraps of paper, that are found near the spot in detective stories. If there were any clues, I couldn’t find them, neither that night nor next morning. While I looked, naturally I asked myself a lot of questions. But I’m not going to put them down here, because I’ve always been irritated or bored by them in other people’s narratives:
But why had Sir Gerald gone down to the gun room at that time of night?
– that sort of thing. But I did ask myself a lot of questions, and began to find answers to one or two of them too.

I was feeling sour next morning, for I’d had a poor night’s sleep and had a bit of hangover after mixing my drink so much. I rang up Sturge’s office in Cambridge, and told the girl I’d mislaid the paper she’d copied and asked her to post off to me at once a copy of her copy of it. She said she’d have to ask Mr Sturge. Probably they’re all doing their duty, these types, but they always sound to me as if they enjoy saying no and being awkward and holding you up. But after I’d started clearing up the studio, not with any zest and speed, Sturge himself came through on the telephone, agreeing to send me a copy by express. Ten minutes later I had a visitor, and for a moment I didn’t recognise his long brown face. It was the liar from down under, Mitchell.

‘Hope you don’t mind me looking you up,’ he said as I let him in. ‘But I happened to see your name in the phone book. I’m at a loose end, and I thought you might be too, and, if so, we might wander round together for an hour or two.’

I gave what I hoped was a pointed look at the big north window and the dark sleety morning outside it. ‘You talk as if you’d got a private sun of your own and the temperature might soon be ninety. Where do we wander to – Sydney Harbour?’ But though I knew he was lying again, I felt that this was too rough. ‘But sit down – that chair’s all right. I have to do some clearing up here.’

‘Glad to give you a hand. No? Then I’ll try not to be in the way.’ He unbuttoned his raincoat, which was quite dry, proof that he’d come in a car or a taxi, and lit a cheroot. I saw him do all this because I was still staring at him, wondering what had brought him. I seemed to catch a glimmer of amusement in those burnt-umber eyes of his, when he returned my stare. ‘You look as if you’re going away, Bedford,’ he said.

I began stacking some canvases that my dealer had promised to store for me. ‘I’m flying to New York,’ I told him over my shoulder. ‘A gallery there is interested in my work. It’s called the Harnberg Gallery, and it’s in East Fifty-seventh Street.’

‘Having – what do you call it? – a show there?’

‘No, they’ve only got about half-a-dozen pictures of mine, nothing like enough for a show.’

He said nothing to that. I stopped stacking the canvases to look hard at two of them, both on the big side, wondering if it would be worth while to take them off their frames, roll them up, for they were both thinly painted, no thick knife work there, and then carry them with me on the plane, to see if Sam Harnberg would make me an offer for them. I was also wondering if Mitchell was really swallowing this stuff about New York. A bit of truth wouldn’t do any harm, I decided, so said: ‘I think I’ll take these two with me,’ and explained how I’d do it.

He came over to have a look at them. He didn’t pretend to know anything about painting, and said so. ‘How much would you expect to get for pictures like these in New York?’

‘Can’t say. Perhaps a thousand dollars each, with luck – less the gallery’s commission, of course. If I were French, I’d try for more – and probably get it. Anyhow, I’ll put them on one side and think about them. Go and sit down, Mitchell, and keep quiet until I’ve finished this sorting out and stacking job. I have decisions to make – and talk worries me. When I’ve done, we’ll have a beer – or some coffee.’

‘Coffee for me, thanks,’ he said as he went back to his chair. ‘I like cold beer in a hot climate, not warm beer in a cold climate. But coffee would be fine.’

Just after eleven, I gave him some coffee, accepted one of his cheroots, and found a stool to draw up near the stove where he was sitting. It was sleeting away outside; we were in a cosy huddle, and couldn’t help feeling friendlier.

‘I mixed my drinks too much last night,’ I said. ‘I feel better now, and if I was too rough when you first arrived, I’m sorry, Mitchell.’

‘Don’t give it a thought, Bedford. Besides, I know what it’s like, dining with Sir Reginald Merlan-Smith.’

I stared at him. ‘How the devil do you know I was there?’

‘Can’t tell you that, Bedford. But I can give you a tip or two. And they’re worth having. I’ve had a lot of experience, chiefly listening to people. Now you’re the opposite of most people, Bedford. This is what
you
do. When you’re not telling the exact truth, you take most of the natural emphasis out of your voice – you throw it away, as the actors say. But when you’re really telling the truth, because you’re an artist and care about life, all the interest and natural emphasis come back. You might remember that – it’s worth knowing.’

‘I’m sure it is, Mitchell. Thanks for telling me. But I think I ought to tell you that I’d decided you were a liar, either for business or pleasure, on that train from Cambridge.’

He grinned. ‘Of course. That’s what I wanted you to feel.’ And he wasn’t boasting, just stating a fact. ‘As I told you, I’ve had a lot of experience.’

‘Tell me the truth now, Mitchell.’ And I frowned at him; I was still feeling angry about it. ‘Was it you who broke into this place last night and took something of mine?’

He was serious at once. ‘Certainly not. Please take my word for it that I’ve never set foot in this studio before this morning. Right? Good! Tell me what happened.’

‘Not unless you tell me how you knew I was at Sir Reginald’s last night. All right, you won’t? Then we’re both mystery men. But you’re better at it than I am – so – any more tips?’

‘Just one.’ He hesitated for a moment. ‘No – two. You ought to tell people more or tell ’em less, depending on who they are. I think you’re inclined so far to give ’em too little or too much, just the wrong amount either way. Now that sheet of paper you were looking at in the train – did somebody steal that, last night? No, don’t trouble, I’ve got my answer. What was on it?’