No Variations (Argentinian Literature Series) (17 page)

Henrietta knew nothing about the society of St. Mawr; Malcolm knew even less; and neither ever heard a word about Bertram Fortescue Wynthrope-Smyth. After dismissing the possibility he was a patient at the clinic, they thought it must have been a [practical, elaborate] joke. The intrusion sounded puerile to them, and the idea of a chimney sweep being part of a secret society was scarcely credible. Although Melchior (who was about to begin his journey back to Amsterdam, from which he came the previous day), knew many a ghastly tale about the horrors and abuses suffered by boys employed as chimney sweeps. “Back in the Victorian Age,” said Henrietta, interrupting with a self-conscious harrumph. Afterwards, we began discussing the many idolatrous sects that are active in England today. Some are innocent enough, like Man o’ War (although there was a fanatic among its members who happened to own the Books of Last Reason, which of course we’d all read), while others were quite dubious, like Henry the Horse, which was only a cover used by a group of heroin addicts for whom the syringe was both emblem and institution … and which claimed, as a badge of merit, to have some Argentine doctor at their disposal. Tony was the one who paid most attention.

Melchior, an expert on Slavic languages, interrupted with an observation taken from the novel,
Petersburg
, by Bely, in which it is claimed that the single most important person in the bureaucratic hierarchy of St. Petersburg was the chimney sweep. After reciting the passage [to us] in Russian, he continued with the
pushkina karta
[read in the Tarkovsky film], and [then] concluded with something from
Eugene Onegin
.

Luckily, that afternoon I received the first file on
Agraphia
, and the first report on
The Megalithic European
, Tadeus Oliphant, born in Yden …, about which I once heard him speak …

Friday, Tony and I decided to go to the meeting and attend to all the formalities. We had on the necktie and jaspé sash the committee requested we wear. In the Badger & Boar—or was it the Ferret & Bear?—we met up with our guide, a Terry-Thomas lookalike, who led us through an alley into a dimly-lit premises. The alley was so dark the single candle that illuminated the place dazzled us to temporary blindness.

A few flights down, Bertram Fortescue Wynthrope-Smyth presided over the meeting, as if he were the mad hatter (whom he resembled somewhat). He spoke with a high voice, and that impeccable accent, which—perhaps because of his explicative tone—now sounded like that of a BBC newsreader … Truth be told, we understood very little (we should’ve also given a necktie and sash to Malcolm so he could come along and interpret), but from the small amount we [from the little Tony and I] managed to decrypt, we concluded that:

a) The fictional St. Mawr from Lawrence’s story had actually existed, but had been dead for some years.

b) Then he was reborn in the United Kingdom—in Wales (
of all places
), to be exact—since his father, who was of uncertain origin (a stallion, apparently rejected by the Spanish equestrian school in Vienna), was grazing in a sleepy meadow a few miles outside London.

c) Given the society was non-profit, and since it was so expensive looking after a horse, after six months, it required the radical intervention of a couple of prosperous American entrepreneurs (and philanthropists) to ensure the mating was successful.

d) Once the cult of St. Mawr was born, it committed itself to what was called “the small instauration” and to “the little idiom.” No one ever mentioned St. Mawr’s mother.

From the back, an elfin-looking creature came out dressed like an altar boy, his surplice trailing along the floor, carrying an object covered by a type of serviette on which everyone presently swore an oath. When our turn came, Tony nervously tried to repeat the words he heard muttered by the others. The object turned out to be nothing more than a well-thumbed [Penguin] edition of Lawrence’s book. It wasn’t even a first edition, but one with an introduction or epilogue or additional commentary (I forget which) by the great Leavis.

Bertram Fortescue’s closing words were:

—Like Numa Pompilius, one presides over this society with the assistance of a muse. Latinisms aside, she will never attend these meetings unless some great calamity befalls one, in which case, she will take one’s place …

Afterwards, Bertram Fortescue Wynthrope-Smyth gave us a leaflet from which I learned how to spell his name [correctly].

Three days later, a letter arrived. It was addressed only to me. Offended by the apparent snub, Tony resolved never again to mention anything to do with D. H. Lawrence or even the ridiculous name of that emperor of chimney sweeps.

I took a train to St. Pancras, and from there, grabbed a taxi to Durward Street. I was beginning to get the impression I was in a film: the changing scenery, the developing plot, the cinematic sequences—particularly on my journey through the city—it all seemed so contrived, I felt I was in a movie theater watching myself, waiting to see what would happen next. In the taxi, I passed by some posters of Kate Bush peeling off the buildings, advertising yet another comeback. How sensitive we are to every second of our aging. The London I saw will already be old by the time this is read. The taxi dropped me off in front of an enormous warehouse. I rang the bell and the door was answered by Mrs. Prothero.

The house was done up to appear as homey as possible, although it wasn’t very clean, and the wallpaper told only of the proprietor’s dubious taste (apologies, Chesterton), a typically English, middle class residence, with a steep staircase and hallway decorated with watercolors depicting uncertain scenes from an English countryside that exists only in folklore.

I was told to wait for my contact in a room with two facing chairs of very different design, a small table, and a china cabinet adorned with trophies, badges, a diploma, and some statuettes of canines. Out of the jumbled mess on the table, there protruded a book about children’s art by an author whose face—which appeared on the cover—looked as if it was once used as an ashtray. The small bookshelf in the corner contained nothing of interest—tourist guides, cookbooks, the Gayelord Hauser diet—except for two Penguin publications [from the Tschichold or Schmoller period] of Anthony Powell books that were written before his
A Dance to the Music of Time
cycle—the one with an illustration by Osbert Lancaster—both delights for any collector, especially one as obsessive as myself, who was tempted to steal them [+
who stole them
,
afterwards
]. In the other corner (the one to my left, from where I was seated), there were stacks of old records. I walked over to have a closer look [at the covers]: Vera Lynn, Matt Monro, Engelbert Humperdinck, Helen Shapiro, Patsy Cline … Then I suddenly heard a noise and [swiftly] returned to the seat Mrs. Prothero had assigned me—a rustic armchair that was facing the second staircase.

From there, I saw a pair of shoes descending, the tips of which were parted to look like hoofs (I believe I saw them advertised in a shop window on the King’s Road), then a pair of magnificent legs [atavistic, oriental], then a body sheathed in a leotard, which was either brown with yellow ocellations or yellow with brown ocellations—either way, alluring, either way, entrapping, consuming—a pattern to excite the male libido, the ashes of which are trampled underfoot (or hoof). She really kept me waiting. I was already five minutes late on arriving.

I scanned her from head to foot (or hoof) and judged her well-endowed, despite her very angular features and aloof expression being under a thick layer of what looked to me like makeup removal cream. Two tightly braided blond pigtails fell across her naked, pallid shoulders. She had a distant though penetrating look, as if she were pointing a sword at a louring horizon. And her eyes seemed to communicate [directly] to my gut which forwarded the message to my brain.

—You seem a lot younger than the person Hugo described, and much less handsome. There, there, don’t be discouraged. I’m Bambi—she said, leaning over to kiss my cheek.

Then she slid into the large, medieval chair opposite mine and crossed her legs tightly, which made a loud, near-comic, and abrasive sound—which called to my mind Rita Renoir and Benny Hill. Then she took up a scone and began gnawing at it like a mouse with those perfectly formed, lipstick stained incisors. (Was there an urticant substance in that red lipstick? My left cheek was burning.)

—Our mission is simple—said Bambi—as you will soon discover. You mustn’t tell Hugo I told you. But everyone’s supposed to think
you
are the one who bought the horse and that I am your wife; that
you
are a Spanish gentleman—Mr. Rico—established in London, and that the horse is for your—
our
—daughter.

I said I knew nothing, not even who this Hugo was.

—Fortunately, he’s not aware of this, she said. For a Spaniard, your English isn’t bad, Mr. Rico …

I said I intended to improve it. But from the start, Bambi acted as judge of my every word and gesture. And although my opinion of her was to change completely [my presumptions about her were to change] in the course of our evening’s adventures, only now do I know (having not been fully aware of it then) that everything I said and did from the beginning onwards was said and done only to please her.

—We have to wait for Hope, who’ll be here soon. She’s going to take us where we need to go. But don’t worry, there’s still plenty of time to spare. You don’t mind waiting while I finish getting ready?

She took three or four steps towards the china cabinet, chose a small bottle, unscrewed the top, and extracted a small brush. Then she took three or four steps backwards, like a funambulist, watching her balance in her hoof-like shoes.

—You will be amazing, Mr….

I said my surname.

—Don’t worry about that. Just keep calling yourself “Mr. Rico” so we don’t get confused before the adversary.

I said that, for convenience, she should call me by my first name (which I repeated). And that there’s no need for the “Mr.”

—You must be patient with me. I’m not good with names. Now regarding St. Mawr, it may seem like an incredibly strange society to you. And since you’re ignorant of so many things, I presume you don’t know that it’s a totally non-profit, extremely permissive, heterodox society, and that although they meet in secret, the reasons they meet aren’t exactly simple: you see they love keeping secrets, Mr. Rico, and I’m not exactly the most tight-lipped of people. Quite the contrary, in fact: I’m the kind of person who likes to share them, to spread them far and wide … As a result, Mr. Rico, I attract a lot of attention, you know? So remember, the Society of St. Mawr is a permissive, heterodox, non-profit organization. I couldn’t be a member if this wasn’t the case.

There was a picture on the wall that was directly in [purposely put within] my line of sight: it depicted a little man standing with a crumpled figure resembling a dragon at his feet, looking out towards a kingdom on flames. Fleeing in the opposite direction, as if to avoid his gaze, as if to disdain his courageous triumph, was the aery silhouette of a fairy or princess. Behind her, a winged chariot—like in Marvell’s poem—seemed to be sweeping away her footprints as she fled, while a young child, a cherub, looked on in amazement.

I asked her about the risks.

—No risks, Mr. Rico. I promise. Hugo would warn us if there was any danger. We’ve been devilishly secretive, and moreover, deliciously perverse.

I asked her if she meant to say “perceptive.”

—I said perverse, Mr. Rico, and that’s what I meant. But at least you’re listening to what I’m saying.

She carefully passed the brush over the nail of her left ring finger. Then I feared she’d suggest we go to her room—for whatever reason, not necessarily sexual—where I’d have my suspicion confirmed that it was still kept as it was when she was a teenager, as if she—a grown woman—were reluctant to let go of her adolescent angst, her maudlin existential search for a self: something depicted all too often in contemporary cinema and literature, and symptomatic of a soulless age.

To break the silence and allay my fears, I sought sanctuary in a casual question: did she know any other Spanish people?

—Of course I do, many; and Latin Americans too. They are, as Hugo says, “my specialty.” I know quite a few words in Spanish, or
en castellano
—she mispronounced (which the italics should indicate without the need of a footnote)—but I couldn’t give an entire speech in the language, your language. You’d have to help me with that. I know “medianoche” and “destino” and “corazón” and “certeza.” And, let me see, I also know “la hostia,” “carajo,” “matador,” “después” … and the phrase “apaga y vamanos.” O yes, and “color quebrado, color quieto” … and let’s see, what else … did I say “después”? … And, by the way, I also know Triste’s parents’ names.

—It’s a pity my friend isn’t here. He’s an Argentine linguist, and he hates Spanish almost as much as you do …