Midge was indeed having dreams, nightmares, in which Stuart’s white face stared at her accusingly, as she had seen it staring when she was sitting on that chair by the door in that awful room, exposed, ridiculous, vanquished. In some dreams, when the pale horseman passed her by, he turned towards her and was Stuart.
But Midge also dreamed about Jesse. Jesse as a sea beast, covered in prickles and fur, like a sea lion, like a walrus, like a whale. Jesse coming to her, young again, and saying, I love you, marry me. And Midge in the dream would think, and I
can
, I am young and free, I am not married to anybody. Edward’s question had stirred Midge and agitated her deeply. She felt now as she walked along Jesse’s hot wet kisses upon her lips. She thought:
he is here
, and I shall see him again.
‘Excuse me, I wonder if by any chance you know where Jesse Baltram is? Someone told me he’s in London, and I thought he might have come here to the Royal College.’
‘Jesse Baltram’s in town?’
‘I’m not sure, I think so.’
‘He hasn’t been here. You haven’t seen Jesse Baltram have you?’
‘Jesse, that old rogue, is he around again?’
‘I just wondered if any of you had seen him.’
‘No, but tell him to drop in if you find him. He’ll find a lot of his old friends still here.’
‘And enemies!’
‘Are you a painter?’
‘No, just a — ’
‘I thought you might be one of his pupils.’
‘He’s too young to be Jesse’s pupil, I was in Jesse’s last class, this young fellow is a mere child!’
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘No thanks. I wonder if you could suggest anyone else I could ask?’
‘Are you writing a book about him?’
‘No.’
‘It’s about time there was a decent book.’
‘But you like his painting? There are a couple of Jesses here.’
‘Or were! They’re in store now!’
‘Anyone who has a few Jesses is sitting on a gold mine.’
‘You might try his gallery.’
‘Yes, try that place in Cork Street.’
‘No, the lease ran out, the chap moved out to Ealing, name of Barnswell, try the telephone book.’
‘Jesse wouldn’t go near that poor sod now.’
‘Still, he might know.’
‘Well, well, I thought Jesse would never come back to London.’
‘Can’t you find out from his country place?’
‘They aren’t on the telephone — ’
‘Wait a minute. You look awfully like him. Are you his son?’
‘Yes.’
‘I didn’t know Jesse had a son.’
‘Just look!’
‘You can’t go away now, have a drink!’
‘So you’re not a painter? You must be!’
‘No, I can’t paint — ’
‘Have you tried?’
‘No, but — ’
‘I’ll teach you to paint.’
‘Thanks, but I must go now.’
‘Excuse me, are you Mr Barnswell?’
‘What do you want?’
‘I believe you used to handle Jesse Baltram’s pictures.’
‘Who says so?’
‘Some people at the Royal College of Art.’
‘How did you find this place?’
‘I looked you up in the telephone book.’
‘Are you a dealer?’
‘No.’
‘What do you want then?’
‘I’m looking for Jesse.’
‘I haven’t got him. I hope he’s dead. What do you want him for?’
‘I’m just a friend of his.’
‘Does he owe you money?’
‘No.’
‘Are you one of those toughs who go round collecting debts?’
‘No.’
‘Pity. If you were I’d put you onto him, if I knew where he was. He owes me plenty.’
‘Have you any idea — ’
‘I imagine he’s still rotting in the country, in that ugly nasty monstrosity he put up in those marshes, why don’t you go there?’
‘I think he’s in London.’
‘I wrote him enough letters there, he never answered.’
‘What money does he owe you?’
‘I paid him for some pictures he never delivered.’
‘I’m sure he — ’
‘I took him up when no one ever heard of him, I made his reputation.’
‘I’m sure he never meant — ’
‘He ruined my business. I used to be in Cork Street. Look at this dump.’
‘I’m sorry — ’
‘I’ve still got some early Jesses. You interested in buying?’
‘No, I’m not, actually — ’
‘They’re not too pricey. Be a good sight pricier when he’s dead. You could have a real bargain.’
‘No, I — ’
‘Come on, it’s an investment. I need the bloody money.’
‘No, thanks — I wonder if — ’
‘Please yourself, if you don’t want to be rich.’
‘I wonder if by any chance you know his old address in Chelsea?’
‘In Flood Street. I should think so. I was there all the time.’
‘Could you let me have it?’
‘Yes, on condition you let me know where he is when you find him.’
‘All right.’
‘What are you up to anyway? As if you’d say. Here’s the address.’
‘Thank you — ’
‘If you catch up with him you might just push him in the Thames. That stuff will be really up-market when the old swine is dead. Roll on that day.’
‘Excuse me, I was wondering — ’
‘Come in.’
‘I just wanted to — ’
‘Come right in. Drop your coat here, come into the drawing room. This is the drawing room. It used to be upstairs.’
‘Thank you, I’m sorry to bother you — ’
‘No bother at all. Have a drink, sherry, whisky, gin? There’s some Campari somewhere.’
‘Well, thank you, sherry, but — ’
‘I hope you don’t mind a dry sherry? I can’t abide sweet ones.’
‘No, fine, thank you. This
is
Number 158 Flood Street, is it?’
‘Yes, sure. Sit down on the sofa.’
‘Thank you — ’
‘How did you find my address?’
‘I got it from Mr Barnswell in Ealing.’
‘I don’t know anyone in Ealing. I don’t know any Barnswells either if it comes to that.’
‘I wonder if you think I’m someone else?’
‘How could you be someone else? I’m quite content that you should be you. Why want to be someone else?’
‘I don’t, but — ’
‘Are you at the university?’
‘Yes, in London — ’
‘What are you doing?’
‘French — ’
‘Don’t you just adore Proust?’
‘Yes — ’
‘I’m going to college in London too, next fall. I’m going to do psychology. How old are you?’
‘Twenty.’
‘Why, so am I, what a coincidence! What’s your name?’
‘Edward.’
‘Mine’s Victoria. Don’t you think it’s a pretty name?’
‘Yes — but, look — ’
‘If you have a short surname you must have a long first name. My surname’s Gunn. What’s yours?’
‘Look, I must tell you — ’
‘Do you know, I own this house!’
‘You must be rich.’
‘My pa is. He’s given it to me, It’s something to do with tax. Have another drink.’
‘Look, Victoria, I just came to ask if anyone here could tell me where to find Jesse Baltram.’
‘Never heard of her.’
‘It’s a he. He used to live here.’
‘Sorry, lost in mists of past.’
‘Would anyone else — ?’
‘Pa’s only just bought the house. This ghastly wallpaper isn’t our idea. The other people have gone. I reign in their stead. You are my very first visitor!’
‘Where is your pa?’
‘In Philadelphia making more money. I’ll be living all alone here, except for Stalky.’
‘Oh. Who’s Stalky?’
‘My grey pussy cat, he’s still in quarantine, I miss him frightfully.’
‘Could you give me — ’
‘He’s all grey except for a little white spot on his front. He’s cute. He thinks he’s a human being.’
‘Could you give me the address of the people who used to live here?’
‘They left a bank address, their name’s Something-Smith, I’ve got it upstairs somewhere.’
‘Thanks, if you — ’
‘Why do you want to find this Baltram?’
‘He’s my father.’
‘Why is he lost?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Sorry. You must think I’m a funny lady.’
‘I think you’re a very nice lady. But you shouldn’t have let me in. I might have been a rapist.’
‘Well, there are rapists and rapists. Kiss me, Edward.’
Edward, nearly mad with remorse and grief, was kept going by hope. He kept picturing how wonderful it would be when he found Jesse. He kept praying, oh let me find Jesse, let me only find him and all will be well. He pictured himself telling Jesse about his adventures, and hearing Jesse laugh. In these visions Jesse was better, cured, rejuvenated, glowing with power and beauty. He had indeed metamorphosed himself, taken on another form to renew his strength. Sometimes Edward felt that this
must
be so, and that Jesse must be, not only alive, but somewhere
very near.
Jesse was simply teasing him by his absence, perhaps even watching him. He kept seeing ghost Jesses in the street, sometimes pursued them. Once he got off a bus and ran back having seen Jesse on a crowded pavement. The hope provided occupation, a
programme
for every day. Edward left early on his travels, came back late. He avoided Harry who was, he imagined, blaming Edward for what he had seen at Seegard, though of course no word was exchanged on the subject.
He had come back to a pile of letters, most of them from Mrs Wilsden. He glanced at each to satisfy himself that they were still simply hate letters, and threw them away unread. There were also two letters, dated some time ago, from Sarah Plowmain complaining about various things, which he also did not read. Stuart had left a note with his address. Thomas had written asking him to come and see him. Edward did not feel ready to see either of these mentors. He wanted to find Jesse first and relieve his mind of the horror. If that really was Jesse, and not some dream or simulacrum, which he had seen in the river, he was guilty of a murder. A second one. He had left Jesse, as he had left Mark, to see a woman. The similarity of the two betrayals could not be accidental; and the torturing pain of these two crimes now mingled in his mind, each intensifying the other. He kept trying to make it less by telling himself that if he had really seen Jesse down in that brown water, then he had certainly seen a drowned man, a corpse, and not someone who could have been rescued. Jesse had looked so quiet, so strangely remote as if
calm
, not like a half asphyxiated struggling victim. Yet suppose he had not been dead, but in one of his trances? Suppose he had just fallen in and, when Edward turned away, been instantly swept downstream and drowned later? The curious calmness of the image had contributed to Edward’s immediate idea that it was an illusion, and to that he sometimes clung. He had at once taken it to be unreal, and did not that prove something? Alas, nothing except Jesse himself would ever be a proof; and without proof Edward would be condemned to eternal torment. Perhaps this was a punishment for what he did to Mark? He had, before, wanted a punishment, but not like this. He had envisaged a redeeming penance, not an intensification of guilt. Sometimes his only solace was the idea that he could always kill himself.
Edward was also torn by an intense desire to
tell somebody
about what had happened; and by the knowledge that if he told anyone, any single person, he would alter the entire world. He could then be accused. Well, was he not sufficiently accused by himself, would not other accusers all be less vindictive? Though he was demented by his secret and his solitude, the idea of anyone knowing was intolerable to Edward, as if with
this
the disgrace came: not only eternal pain, but eternal loss of honour. God, and he was still so young, bound to so long a suffering! He did not want to spend his life being pitied. He did not want to give away to any other person the power to reveal this second crime. No other person could be trusted. He could not now inform the police, he would be convicted of immoral and criminal concealment. He could not talk to Stuart, or to Harry or Midge or Ursula or Willy. He considered talking to Thomas; but Thomas would be so
interested
, so fascinated, Thomas would pursue the matter, making of it something more, something else, something (however long Thomas was silent) public. Edward could not let this terrible thing belong to another. His only hope of survival, if Jesse never came back, was to live with it and hope that it would somehow crumble. By imparting it, he would give it more life.