An Artist and a Magician Page 18

  Surely, he thought, after he had hung up, Bernard, even though he didn’t want him to leave, when he saw just what had been accomplished in four days—saw the disaster—would realize he was serious, and agree that perhaps departure was the best course. Surely he would, he told himself miserably as he managed to free two chairs and set them down in the middle of the chaos with a whisky bottle and two glasses on the bare wooden floor between them. Surely he would….

  But he didn’t. He seemed, indeed, when he arrived, his little turned down mouth falling open with astonishment—and it was the first time Wilbur had ever seen him like this—truly furious. And there was no twinkle in the eye, no just concealed smile on the lips, when he snarled, ‘You’ve gone out of your head. You’re going through your menopause. You’re—you’re fucking mad!’

  Wilbur couldn’t even say, ‘Oh Bernard.’

  ‘Put it back. Put it back this instant,’ the old man shouted. ‘If you think I’m going to sit in the middle of a store room and have a scotch, you’re wrong. You’re out of your mind. I should have known you were up to no good, being so busy for the last few days. You’ve never been that busy.’

  ‘Oh Bernard, do sit down‚’ Wilbur managed to get out at last.

  ‘No I will not! I’m too old to start camping out. Now go and put some shoes on and let’s go out to a restaurant.’

  ‘No‚’ Wilbur said, flatly and sulkily. ‘I’ve got to talk to you.’

  ‘Well I don’t want to talk to you. Not about this, anyway.’

  ‘Bernard, I have to leave. Don’t you realize. I mean apart from everything that’s happened. My life in Rome is over now. My time’s up. I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Well my time isn’t up, and you’re not going.’

  ‘But why, Bernard? We can see each other in the States, I shall probably come back here on a visit at least once a year, and you do know lots of other people here. I’m not your entire social life.’

  ‘Oh fuck your social life. And mine. Of course I know lots of people here, even if most of them are idiots. But do you think I give one damn about that? I don’t even give a shit if I never see you again. It’s just that I cannot stand hysteria and stupidity, real stupidity, and especially not in you, who I’ve always thought was the one person in the world who wasn’t stupid. I don’t give a damn if you go, but you’re not going, because I refuse to allow people to make fools of themselves, above all you. I’m doing what everyone’s supposed to do, stand by their friends, and you’ll be grateful in six months time that I did stop you going. And besides,’ he said, his voice lowered a little at last, and finally sitting down with a crash in one of the two chairs Wilbur had set out, ‘It’s not true that I don’t give a damn if you go. Of course I do. At my time of life—or at any time of life—one has to be grateful if one knows one sane person. And if you are so lucky, you have to hang on to them. But don’t push me,’ he added, in case his last statement had seemed too much like an apology, ‘because even though I do believe in standing by my friends, and tolerating the odd moment of insanity even in the sane, I won’t stand for it for long. I’m not that charitable.’

  ‘Oh Bernard‚’ Wilbur said, risking a smile, ‘no one’s ever accused you of being charitable.’

  ‘Just as well too,’ the old man huffed, leaning forward and pouring himself a whisky.

  ‘Nevertheless,’ Wilbur went on after a while, ‘I’m serious.’

  But this, just as he was settling down, was too much for Bernard. And beside himself once again, leaping to his feet, and half dropping and half throwing his glass on the floor, he howled, ‘Oh Christ!’ Then he bellowed, ‘You are not serious Wilbur George, and you never have been and you never will be, and if you were you could never have been a friend of mine because I’m a corrupted bloated disgusting old man whose only talents in life have ever been slaughtering animals, making underhand and extremely profitable deals and seducing preferably poor and defenceless virgins. Therefore do not repeat that word in my presence, and now you have ruined my evening and before you ruin our entire friendship I am going to go and have dinner by myself and get roaring drunk and good night. Good night!’

  ‘Good night, Bernard,’ Wilbur murmured as the old man stormed out—and for a second, even now, felt a smile coming to his lips. But then he sat down, and poured himself a scotch, and gave in, totally, to despair.

  He sat there till one o’clock in the morning; and then, feeling bits of broken glass through his socks, but not caring, went to his bed; the only raft left intact amidst the sea of his life.

  He was in despair when he woke next morning, and muttered to Philip, ‘we will leave, my beauty’, and he spent the whole of that day (he had told Lillian and Aida that there was no point in their coming in) in despair. At least, until six o’clock. And then, at six o’clock, when the bell rang and he opened the door once again to Bernard, he started to feel more cheerful.

  Because he saw, immediately, that the old man, having made his scene yesterday, was in quite a different mood today; a mood that promised, at last, well. Rosy cheeked, and dressed in his loudest, most ill-fitting clothes, he came stomping into the apartment, not seeming to notice the shambles about him; and waving an old service revolver in his hand—a service revolver that Wilbur had seen him wave at other times; and always when he was feeling particularly benevolent—he said, ‘Still planning on leaving, are you? Well, maybe you aren’t so mad. So many fucking communists out demonstrating this afternoon about something that I thought I’d better come out armed.’

  ‘Oh Bernard, you old fool,’ Wilbur instinctively said, hoping he didn’t sound too relieved at this change for the better. ‘It’s not loaded, is it?’

  ‘’Course it is. What the hell’s the use of an unloaded revolver if you’re attacked by a mob.’

  ‘I don’t think anyone’s about to attack you.’

  ‘’Course they are. They can smell me. I give out a particular smell that they recognize and distrust instantly. Soap,’ he cackled. ‘Dirty unwashed lot.’

  ‘Well put it down and come in.’

  ‘Can’t imagine why. What’s there to come in to? We might just as well stay here.’

  ‘Oh Bernard,’ Wilbur said.

  ‘Actually, I’m on my way to the doctor’s. But I thought I’d just stop by and make sure you’re not crying your eyes out. You are still planning on leaving, are you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Wilbur said, faintly nervously.

  ‘And if you leave you’ll need some money to leave with, right?’

  ‘Oh—er—well—’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Yes‚’ Wilbur mumbled. ‘But it would only be a loan‚’ he went on hurriedly. ‘A real loan. And just as soon as I get settled I’ll start to pay you back.’

  ‘Ha‚’ Bernard snorted. ‘Well, I can’t stop now, but come for dinner tomorrow night, and let me know how much you want, and when you want it, and we’ll discuss things. All right? It won’t be a great meal, because Pino’s mother’s sick and he’s gone away for a week. Fucking servants. But I’ll manage to make something, because obviously we can’t eat here. All right?’

  ‘All right‚’ Wilbur said, hardly able to believe how complete this change in Bernard’s attitude was.

  ‘Good‚’ the old man barked. ‘See you tomorrow then.’

  ‘Eight-thirty?’

  ‘Eight-thirty.’

  And with that, and a sudden, unexpected, and strangely private laugh—a laugh that made Wilbur, for a second, nervous again; made him suspect, for a second, that Bernard was teasing him, playing a game with him—the old man turned, and, stuffing his revolver into the pocket of his jacket, left.

  It was wonderful! It was too good to be true! After this hellish day, now, suddenly, everything was transformed! And transformed so quickly that Wilbur felt his breath taken away. He was dizzy, with all the ups and downs. One moment in hell, the next in heaven. And Bernard wasn’t playing a game with him, he was sure, in spite of that peculiar
laugh he had given. No, of course he wasn’t, Wilbur told Philip. He had probably laughed at the memory of the scene yesterday, and at how he had behaved. And now—Oh, he said to the bare patched walls, that all at once seemed more beautiful to him than they had when picture covered—I’m safe. Safe.

  ‘We’re leaving, Philip,’ he told the cat. ‘We’re leaving.’

  ‘We’re leaving,’ he told the cat, who was lying on the bed with him, when he awoke in the middle of the night. ‘And Uncle Bernard isn’t playing a game with us. We really are leaving.’

  But as he started to fall asleep again, he couldn’t help feeling slightly apprehensive once more. Not because of Bernard’s laugh—that had just been a passing incident—nor even because, the excitement and upset of the move apart, it really was an enormous step he was taking, leaving Rome after all these years; leaving the one place he had always believed was home. No, he told himself, he would be able to cope with that. What made him apprehensive was a renewed remembrance of that youthful novel of his, and the impression—the absurd impression, maybe, but the undeniable impression, nevertheless—that until that matter was cleared up, until he did learn the truth, then he wouldn’t be completely safe. He might not even be able to leave, however much Bernard helped him.

  ‘Oh, we must learn the truth,’ he whispered to Philip. ‘We must, we must, we must.’

  *

  He did, in a way, that very next evening. But not in the way he’d been expecting; and not at all in a satisfactory way.

  He arrived at Bernard’s on the dot of eight-thirty, wearing, for the first time, the new clothes he had bought for himself in Paris, and feeling rather as he imagined a young Victorian man must have felt when going to dinner with his stern and venerable father.

  And Bernard, at the beginning of the evening at least, as he let Wilbur in and gave him a drink, behaved like a stern and venerable Victorian father. He seemed, in contrast with his cheerfulness yesterday, and his explosive bad temper of the day before, preoccupied, and slightly absent. He didn’t swear, he didn’t shout; he didn’t even laugh. He just pottered about, straightening the odd silver framed photograph on his dark tables and desks, checking and rechecking that the candles on the dining table were firmly set in their silver holders, asking more than once if Wilbur’s drink was all right—‘you’re sure you don’t want any more ice?’—and being generally so unlike his normal self that Wilbur couldn’t help asking him, after half an hour had gone by, if he was all right.

  ‘Yes, of course I am, thank you,’ Bernard said with a slight frown.

  And then, just like that, the mood passed.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ the old man barked, ‘I’m getting old. I’ve been spending the whole day thinking about the past, and having regrets about what I haven’t done and what I have done.’

  ‘Oh Bernard….’

  ‘Well, you wait. It’ll hit you too, one day. When you suddenly realize that not only has your body gone to pieces, but your brain’s gone soft too. Now let’s go to the table, and talk about business. Or do you want to eat first?’

  ‘Oh, let’s finish our meal in peace,’ Wilbur said; wanting to be sure that Bernard’s good humour was really firmly established before they did discuss business. Because though he was sure it was going to be all right, if anything went wrong now—oh, he couldn’t bear to think about it. No. Tonight had to be the decisive night, and nothing, nothing could go wrong. And then tomorrow, or in a few days—

  ‘You just want to make sure I’m in a good mood, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Well you needn’t worry. I am. In fact‚’ Bernard growled, ‘I’m feeling in a better mood than I have for years.’ And then, just as he had when leaving yesterday, he gave that strange, private laugh….

  They ate and drank, in spite of Pino’s absence, magnificently; and by the time they were through Wilbur was feeling so flushed with contentment, so glowing with wine and candle-light and old china, and had so forgotten that they did have to talk about business, that he was very shortly going to leave, and that he had felt apprehensive when he had woken last night, and much of today too, he was quite shocked when Bernard, wiping the last traces of cream off his lips and beard, said, ‘Well, how much do you want, you fugitive?’

  ‘Oh,’ Wilbur said. ‘Bernard.’ And then, recovering himself, and knowing that this was no time for hesitation, added ‘Ten thousand dollars.’

  Bernard nodded, and sniffed. ‘Yes,’ he muttered. ‘That’s about the figure I arrived at, too. And tell me, where are you planning to go?’

  ‘For a start I thought I’d go back to the South somewhere. New Orleans, probably. And then look around from there.’

  ‘Uh-hu,’ Bernard muttered. ‘And what are you planning to do when you arrive?’

  ‘Well first, obviously, find somewhere to live. And then find some little job that won’t take up too much of my time—I don’t know, teaching—something like that. But then mainly just writing again seriously for the first time in years.’

  Bernard, abandoning his thoughtfulness for a second, cackled. ‘I told you. You’re not serious.’

  ‘Well I’m going to be from now on,’ Wilbur said. ‘You just see. I told you,’ he murmured, ‘I’ve been working on a new novel for the last few months.’

  ‘Um,’ Bernard said, pushing back from the table, and indicating the living room. ‘I’ve been thinking today. And not only about the past.’

  ‘Yes,’ Wilbur said, eagerly, as he followed the old man back into the living room and sank down into a deep leather chair.

  ‘And while I apologize for having shouted at you the other night—’

  ‘Yes,’ Wilbur said, much less eagerly now, and staring with a renewed flush of apprehension at Bernard, who was still standing, and had his back turned, and was examining something on a table in the corner of the room.

  ‘I’ve decided that after all—’

  ‘Yes,’ Wilbur said, his apprehension turning into terror as he heard the tone, and felt the drift of Bernard’s words.

  ‘I can’t let you go.’

  And so saying, the fat old man turned and faced Wilbur; with the most benign and mischievous expression that Wilbur had ever seen.

  It was so benign and mischievous that his first reaction was that Bernard was, once again, teasing him; only pretending to refuse him what he asked. But then it went on being so benign and mischievous, that even as he started to break out in a sweat of relief, he realized that Bernard wasn’t teasing him at all, and that his mischievousness was due to the fact that he was enjoying watching the effect his words caused. Which made him, confused and lost, think he was going to pass out.

  ‘Please Bernard,’ he gasped. ‘Don’t tease me. Not now. I’ve been too tired recently. Perhaps I’m losing my sense of humour. But please just tell me—’

  ‘I did just tell you,’ the old man chortled, and started advancing towards Wilbur, his little turned down mouth glistening, his eyes dancing with lights. And then, as he advanced, Wilbur saw what he had been examining on the table, and now he carried in his hands. In one, there was a sheet of paper; and in the other, his old service revolver….

  ‘I’m not going to let you go,’ Bernard said, his voice horribly quiet and sneering. ‘Why should I? I’ve been paying for you for all these years to play the fool, to dance when I snapped my fingers, to amuse me and humiliate yourself—why should I stop now, now that I’m old and alone?’

  And still he advanced, as Wilbur pressed himself back in his chair; trying to retreat from this horror, this obscenity; from this whispered, jeering evil….

  ‘You must be crazy. Oh of course, I’ve never minded giving you a little bit of cash so you could entertain me, but if you think I’m going to give you ten thousand dollars so you can go to New Orleans and set up house there and amuse other people—you’re mistaken, Wilbur George. It’s just a matter of economics. As I say, I don’t mind paying for my entertainment, but I’m not going to inves
t in a failure.’

  He was right on top of him now, leaning over him, his hideous little words being spat in Wilbur’s face, his hideous little hands clutching the revolver just an inch from Wilbur’s heart … And as he went on, went on and on, spewing out this poison, Wilbur felt his eyes fill with tears, and Bernard’s loathsome form, looming over him, became blurred. He started to shake his head, whimpering ‘Stop it Bernard. Stop it.’

  But Bernard wouldn’t stop it.

  ‘And that’s what you are, isn’t it?’ he hissed. ‘Or would be, if I let you go. A failure. A flabby, pathetic failure. Because you daren’t go on, do you? You daren’t go all the way. You don’t have the guts. You’ve created this whole world here for yourself, and always kidded yourself that it’s all just tinsel and make believe. But now that you see it’s the real thing, that it’s the only thing—you want to run away. Run back to the ready-made, the second-hand, the cast-off.’

  ‘Stop it Bernard,’ Wilbur sobbed. ‘Please, please stop it.’

  ‘No, I won’t stop it,’ the cruel old bully spat. ‘Here, take this,’ he said, thrusting the revolver into Wilbur’s hand. ‘Hang on to that. Perhaps that’ll make you feel more courageous. Another magic wand to wave. Ha,’ he laughed, ‘you wizard. You artist you. You’re all the same. You don’t mind crawling on your bellies in front of a whole lot of bored, useless people to beg for their petty cash—as long as you can despise them and feel superior to them. And as long as you can kid yourself that you’re free, and that you can go on entertaining them for as long as it suits you. But the second someone points out that you depend on them, that you’re not free, or even worse, threatens to cut off your funds—you howl and blubber and want to run home to mother.’

  He had to stop it! He couldn’t go on listening to this filth. He was falling backwards into space; back through a space full of lies and unspeakable horrors. ‘Stop it stop it stop it,’ he started to chant hysterically. ‘Stop it stop it stop it.’

  ‘Don’t worry though. I will keep on giving you hand-outs. Only by God you’re going to have to earn them. Every day from now on you’re going to have to play for me, you puppet—’