Undue Influence (5 page)

I am alert now to signs of damage in a man. If this is combined with physical excellence I feel a perverse desire to take him over, as if his weakness excited me. When the two conditions are combined—attractiveness and hesitation—our conjunction is often spectacular. I sometimes think that my childish ruthlessness has survived undiminished, but in fact I am careful to cause no harm. Indeed I disappear discreetly, leaving several questions unanswered. I wish that this particular pattern did not impose itself, that I could happily offer affection without that slight feeling of vengeful satisfaction. On the whole I have managed quite well. It is just that my mother’s death, and the sight of those photograph albums, which kept company by her bed together with Palgrave’s
Golden Treasury
, had weakened me. And perhaps I was undergoing the influence of St. John Collier’s sweet-natured assertions, as if to believe in a happier world were within the capacity of even fallen creatures like myself. For I knew myself to be at fault. The intolerance I had manifested towards my father had left a stain, which was why I was such a solitary person. A solitary person with a longing for wholeness, an experience which would cancel all the others. A baptism, if you like.

The man in the basement, of whose presence I had become uncomfortably aware, as he had of mine, smelled discreetly of some subtle scent which was far removed from the blasts of aftershave one was likely to encounter in the early morning. He gave an impression of almost futile luxury, which was implemented when he drew a snowy handkerchief from his pocket and flicked a small speck of dust from his fingers. He implied an army of servants, either that or a lonely and obsessive drive towards perfection, probably the latter. He was probably
rich, certainly idle. I imagined his empty day, every gesture aiming at sublimity. He had an iconic presence, and yet I was able to observe the occasional involuntary grimace which creased his fair thin-skinned face. He was a man torn between achievement and frustration, the balance tilted towards the latter. When I sneezed he gave a violent start, as if recalled to familiarity with greater upheavals.

I offered to make him a cup of coffee but he refused effusively. I was beginning to find his continued presence rather tiresome. At the same time he impressed me as attractive. I wanted to know his story, which I was quite capable of inventing for myself. Perhaps because I had been thinking of my father I thought I detected an unhappy home background, an invalid sister to whom he was deeply attached. This selfless sister—for she would be all virtue, as in one of St John Collier’s scenarios—would urge him to go out and enjoy himself. But the poor fellow would be halfhearted in this pursuit, would seek refuge, indeed basements, where his presence would impress but would remain unchallenged. This same sister would oversee his appearance, which would always be faultless, this being a subject on which they would naturally concur. I had no way of knowing how accurate or inaccurate this picture was, but I did not doubt that I was intrigued. I looked at my watch and realized that he had been silently reading for thirty-five minutes. By this time he could have had one or two of Heine’s poems off by heart. Either that or he was translating them. Perhaps he too was a man of letters. But he looked too ineffable, and also too unhappy, for that. I altered my estimate of him. He was a dilettante, a caste I had always admired.

‘Can I help you?’ I said finally, slightly irritated by the lack of effect my presence was having on him. Besides, I wanted to
get on with my work. I was aware that before my enforced absence I had come across an article boldly entitled ‘Emphasize your good points!’ (nowadays it would be called ‘Maximize your assets!’, in deference to the market economy) which suggested that St John Collier’s favoured publications were emerging from their post-war obedience, and were exchanging austerity for a certain tentative assertiveness. This in turn, but the thought must have been lying dormant, alerted me to the unpleasant fact that St John Collier was running out of time and myself with him. The pile of magazines had shrunk dramatically: my task was almost completed. I had no doubt that Muriel would keep me on for a bit, but she did not really need a full-time assistant. My task had been to devote my attention to St John Collier, and this I had done; editorial work simply amounted to putting the articles in chronological order. Changes of an unwelcome kind seemed to be inevitable. I resolved to ask Muriel whether it might be interesting to write some sort of Foreword, an account of St John’s early life, perhaps. She could tell me the facts and I could string them out into some sort of narrative. The idea appealed to me. I had got used to him; he was safe in my hands. Besides, his philosophy was so user-friendly, the best of the best of all possible worlds, as someone or other had said. Trust and hope would never let you down, he seemed to imply. I should have liked to believe that he was right.

‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’ I asked, rather more sharply than I intended.

‘Jenny Treibel,’
he replied. ‘You don’t seem to have a copy.’

‘We have
Effi Briest,’
I said. ‘Are you particularly interested in Fontane?’

‘Oh, I have several copies of
Effi Briest,’
he replied. ‘It was some of the other stories I was after. They are rather hard to
come by, you know. You are my last hope.’ He gave a heartbreaking smile. ‘I have tried almost everywhere I can think of.’

‘The London Library?’

‘Oh, but you see I must have my own copy.’

He looked worried, distressed, more distressed than one should look in the face of a slight contretemps.

‘Most people come in for the French,’ I remarked chattily, anxious for some reason to put him at his ease.

‘I prefer the German writers,’ he said, with the same heartbreaking smile, as of one confessing to a weakness. A man who was not quite a man, I reflected. The idea had a perverse appeal.

In my mind’s eye I had an image of a book with a red and white cover brought in, with a job-lot of texts, by a university student after graduating. (We get plenty of these.) This book was entitled
The German Library
and was in good condition. Muriel had put it on one side, on one of the tables, with the intention of reading it herself As far as I knew it was still there. The name Fontane, which was certainly there, came to me distantly but with a sense of certainty. I have an excellent photographic memory. I remembered something like ‘Shorter Fiction’, also on the cover.

‘I think I can find you a copy,’ I said. ‘But not straight away. If you’d like to give me your name and address I’ll let you know.’

He looked even more worried, as if this were classified information, but divulged an address in Weymouth Street. I knew it well, of course, for it was on the route of my evening walks. I promised to be in touch and accompanied him back up the stairs. By now he seemed anxious to leave. With a pleasant expression, or so I hoped, I watched as he wrestled with the door.

‘Give it a good tug,’ said Muriel, raising her eyes from her book. ‘It needs seeing to, but we haven’t the right instruments. We need a man.’

At this he looked alarmed, as if she had expected him to take off his coat and get down to it straight away. (She probably had.) We both watched as he extricated himself. Then Muriel went back to her book, and I lingered for a few minutes in the shop. I found the red and white volume under a pile of others on the table, waiting to be shelved. I took it downstairs with me, as if I were going to put it away.

At six o’clock that evening I telephoned the number he had given me. ‘Mr Gibson?’ I inquired. ‘It’s Claire Pitt, from the bookshop. I’ve found a copy of
Jenny Treibel
for you, but it’s in English. Would you like me to keep it for you?’

‘Could you perhaps send it?’ he said.

‘Oh, I’ll drop it in,’ I assured him. I was anxious to verify my theory about the invalid sister. ‘I’m often in the area.’ This at least was true.

‘Claire!’ came Muriel’s voice. ‘I’m locking up.’

He was quite likely to have forgotten my name already. ‘Claire Pitt,’ I repeated, then suddenly wondered what on earth I was doing. His voice had sounded thin and melodious, as if he were on his best behaviour, anxious to reassure. Definitely the invalid sister, I thought.

I picked up the book, said goodnight to Muriel, and went home. In the course of the evening I glanced through it, beguiled by some of the names (‘Victoire’, ‘Lisette’). I would ask him to lend it to me, I decided. Just for a few days. That way I could deliver it to him all over again.

I have no interest in the German Romantics, or indeed in any other kind of romantic, with or without a literary status, but the stories seemed limpid, accessible, but at the same time
remote in time, rather like the man who had been looking for them. I did not go so far as to read
Jenny Treibel
so as to seem more knowledgeable than I really was; such stratagems were not in my nature. I really do not know what I had in mind at that stage. Sometimes an attractive appearance is enough, so that one is inclined to endow the person who possesses such an appearance with other gifts, grace, intelligence, some sort of accomplishment. And this tall fair stranger had seemed so incongruous in our dusty basement, as if he were visiting from another world where everyone was well dressed. The wincing nervousness seemed out of character but it was easy for me to excuse it. It was the reason for this that I was determined to examine. The man had either suffered some sort of psychic injury that had left him otherwise intact or he was under great strain. There may have been, probably was, illness somewhere in the background, and with this I could sympathize all too readily, as my experience had taught me to. I had frequently felt shame at my own resistance to my father’s tragedy, but I believe my instinct was correct. It is sometimes necessary to keep one’s distance from misfortune, however harsh this may seem to others.

The man in the shop seemed more affected by this dilemma (if it existed) than I had ever been; he was far gone, if not in suffering, then no doubt in awareness. I should have liked to discuss this matter with someone, or even to have put the man on his guard. Your sympathy is quite adequate, I should have said; do not allow it to become excessive. Vulnerability is commendable; masochism is not. There was no possibility of my ever saying this. But I believe that my desire to say it was present even on that first day. I felt both pity and impatience, as if enormous efforts would be needed to impose the realities of life once more before it proved too late. In this I may have been
prescient. Spotless heroes (I did not doubt that he would be spotless) often owe their survival to agencies more worldly than themselves. It was something to think about, something to remind me of the fairy stories I had read so obsessively as a child. I put it no higher than that.

Four

It was not his sister who was the invalid. It was his wife. This I learned the following evening when I delivered the book. ‘Martin? Who is it, darling?’ came a voice from another part of the flat.

‘Would you excuse me a minute,’ he said. ‘My wife …’

I was left standing in the middle of a room which was the complete antithesis of our plain-living high-thinking rooms at home. This room was an unironic tribute to the nineteenth century. Looped curtains of dark blue chenille obscured most of the light from the two tall windows that looked out over Weymouth Street. The floor was covered by a large red and blue carpet which someone other than myself could no doubt have identified and dated. On a marble chimneypiece stood a gilt clock under a glass dome and two glass candelabra dripping with glass lustres. In the middle of the room stood a round walnut table on a single pedestal; a smaller version of this was placed between the windows. Two enormous wing chairs, covered in blue and green damask, further obscured the light. These chairs, it seemed to me, were not designed to be occupied. My parents’ chairs at home were upholstered in a vague orange and brown tapestry; they had high backs and wooden arms and were functional and austere. Surrounded by this opulence, which I was left alone to admire, I felt a vague residual
distaste. I did not know how long I was supposed to stand there (for it seemed to me impossible to sit down) and the muted conversation which I could hear coming from another room activated some primitive memory of earlier overheard intimacies.

The light was dim. A couple of opaline lamps supplied what there was; there was no ceiling rose. At home we had been lit by a plain chandelier, for which the word was if anything complimentary: three unadorned wooden arms supported bulbs in parchment shades. This too had given a bad light; my mother’s and father’s reading lamps had supplied the rest. Here I was conscious of light being deliberately excluded. Everything had a high finish. It was warm and silent. I searched for the source of this warmth but could see no radiators. The marble fireplace held a steel grate filled with dyed blue hydrangeas. This struck me as the only artificial element in this nightmare interior in which everything was designed in relation to everything else.