Love in a Bottle (14 page)

“And what will you do?”

“I've no idea. I'll give it some thought tonight. But in point of fact, it isn't just my capital that's finished. The game's up with me too. I've already done everything I wanted to do, and had to do. I shall never write anything better than I already have. I won't, because it can't be done. I've come to the end of what is possible in the English language. I've written poetry as fine as Shakespeare's and Keats's. But I don't want to brag about that, because it doesn't amount to very much. The limits to human expression are in the end very narrow. I can't progress any further, and I'm afraid of falling back. The only logical solution would be suicide. But the Church prohibits nothing so strongly as self-slaughter,” he said, and once again placed his hands together on his chest.

After the restaurant closed they spent the remainder of the evening in Tyrconnel's lodgings. Dowson lay on the rug in front of the fireplace, Tyrconnel sprawled across the divan, and Johnson sat at the writing table. The more he drank, the more monkish his appearance and manner became. The facial features of the other two seemed to blur—his had grown sharper, as in death.

Tyrconnel turned off the light and they sat like damned souls in the eerie flickering light of a tall candle, deep into the night. They all had the feeling that something was coming to an end, something truly sublime, now beyond all helping.

“Only they are happy,” murmured Tyrconnel, “who, like Cuchulain, come across the Invisible People dancing in the moonlight and lie entranced in a clearing in a great wood, somewhere far, far away…”

“With the help of a little opium, perhaps,” Dowson interjected.

“Most probably. Even I think that now,” Tyrconnel replied. “I used to think I had no need for such chemical and scientific aids to free my soul from time and place. For example, I have those Kabbalistic cards…”

“Tell me, Tyrconnel,” Johnson suddenly asked. “Have you ever actually tried them?”

Tyrconnel replied rather shamefacedly that he hadn't.

“Then why don't we try them now?” Johnson returned, rising to his feet. There was a strange excitement in his voice. “I know the Church rigorously condemns the use of magic, but it does to some extent condone the Christian Kabbalah—because it can't be used to conjure up the devil, or those evil spirits who bring mortal souls into danger. So where are these cards, then?”

With some hesitation Tyrconnel drew them from the leather cases in which they had been silently skulking.

“So, what do you do with them?” asked Dowson, as in a dream.

“Everyone picks a card, takes it home and studies it. The diagram or symbol shown on it will inspire a vision that holds the hidden solution… at least, according to George Russell. I won't presume to guarantee that this will happen. But if we really are going to put it to the test, let's each take the same symbol. Then, according to Russell, we should all see the same vision. Tomorrow we can report back to one another, or we could all three of us work our revelations up into separate poems. It'd be interesting to see how they differed.”

“To hell with the individual differences,” said Johnson. “Give us the cards, and let's be off. It'll put an end to this very long night.”

“Look, here are four identical cards, for example, all number eights, with a full moon, signifying Love. Here are three with the symbol for Marriage. And three with the Death symbol. Which one shall we choose?”

“Why not Love?” said Dowson.

“Why not Death?” said Johnson. “It's the one most in fashion these days.”

Johnson and Dowson went home, each with a card in a leather case in his pocket.

After they had gone, Tyrconnel stayed up. His level of fatigue and inebriation had reached the point where a man no longer feels tired and for a while his brain remains clear and sober. He aired the room, tidied it up, then leafed through a Dublin periodical. From time
to time he heaved a great sigh. Life, he felt, was utterly incomprehensible.

He decided he really should get to bed. As he was taking off his coat he came upon the leather card case, whose existence he had completely forgotten. It bore the number nine, and a Hebrew letter whose name he did not know. “Obviously the letter for Death,” he thought.

“Should I really look at it?” he wondered. “I suppose I have to, since we all three said we would.” In that instant he realised that it was something more than mere indifference that had made him leave it where it was. Some other feeling was at work in him, a kind of fear… Perhaps, after all…

Wanting to defer the moment, he started to cut the pages of the French novel he intended to read in bed the next morning. He was barely halfway through when he suddenly received what was effectively an order—that he look at the card. He leapt up and dashed across to the candle.

He took the card out of its leather case. At first his
shortsighted
eyes could make out nothing but the lines that made up the matrix. Then he noticed that they were starting to draw the face of a man. He leant closer, and dropped it in horror. It was the face of Lionel Johnson.

“Well, I did drink a fair amount,” he thought. “How on earth could Johnson's face get onto the card?”

He picked it up again.

Once again his friend's image appeared before him. But now it was not as he had seen it earlier. It had
definitely
changed. The features had become much sharper. Sinister shadows were forming beneath the eyes, and the
jaw seemed to have sunk a little, as if all the strength had gone out of it.

He threw on his coat and hat and dashed out into the street. Luckily a cab was waiting at the corner. He shook the driver awake and gave him Johnson's address.

Arriving, he leapt out of the cab. At that precise moment a second cab stopped at the door, and out jumped Ernest Dowson.

“You too?” Tyrconnel asked, with a frisson of horror.

Dowson nodded in affirmation. They raced up the four steps and began to hammer on the door. No response. They pummelled and kicked it, in a rising frenzy of impatience and hysteria.

The commotion produced a policeman from somewhere. Normally the streets of this well-to-do neighbourhood were completely deserted.

“And what are you up to, then?”

“We've come to see Mr Johnson.”

“Mr Johnson came home earlier, perhaps half-an-hour ago. If he wanted to let you gentlemen in he would already have done so. He clearly does not wish to see you. You'd better go home.”

“My God, you must help us get this door open somehow.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Something terrible has happened in there…”

The policeman considered this.

“His doorman went away this morning. Mr Johnson is there on his own. Hm… Right, let's go.”

He fetched a crowbar and prised the door open.

They found Lionel Johnson in his bedroom. He was lying on the bed, in his dressing gown, which now looked even more like a cowl. His facial features had become much sharper, and the lower jaw had sunk slightly, as if all the strength had gone out of it. His heart had stopped.

Brain haemorrhage, the doctor decided.

1934

J
ÁNOS BÁTKY
, PhD, took care to protect himself against the greyness of everyday life. As a child he even managed on occasions to convince himself that the
chocolate
he was eating was in fact salami. Later, he acquired a passion for cocktails. The gin in his vermouth seemed to him to embody the mighty spirit of ancient pine forests. Adding curaçao to red wine conjured up a sixteen-year-old girl—who no doubt had long since married. Women’s actual faces he forgot instantly.

“What does Jenny look like?” he was wondering, one autumn afternoon in London. The walls of the little Welsh chapel that stood before him were overrun with ivy. How wonderful it is that, in the midst of all the traffic, London churches retain that pristine air of rustic piety.

The little aphorism was quickly noted down—he was a methodical man—then his thoughts returned to Jenny. Five minutes to six. If he couldn’t remember what she looked like
by then it would be a disaster. True, she usually wore dark blue, but that could not be relied on as an incontrovertible truth. Doubtless there would be something unmistakably Jennyish about her, but it would be as subtle as the
difference
between two varieties of tea. In the end, all women were Jennys.

“Hello, is it really you?” she said on arrival.

It was a good question. “At any meeting the first
requirement
, and the most difficult, is to establish identity,” he noted (this time in his head). Here was a completely
unfamiliar
woman burbling away and absolutely furious because he hadn’t been in the precise place they had agreed on. He waited for her to calm down, then asked:

“Won’t you come back to my place for tea?”

“Oh, no,” she replied, terrified by the prospect. She always was. Then they set off to his place for tea. As they always did.

Jenny was telling him about the customers. An elderly gentleman had bought a Georgian poker, a wooden madonna and a little African carving. But he had taken so long about it! And crocodiles were still very much in demand. Oh, and there were these two young men,
obviously
artists, who had told her that she looked like an Italian painting. What was the name of that famous Italian painter?

“Giovinezzo Giovinezzi?” Bátky hazarded.

The same. And they had asked her to dinner. But she hadn’t gone. No nice girl would.

She worked in an antique shop.

“And Lady Rothesay was back again.”

“Oh, was she?” he remarked, suddenly interested. (Rothesay… splendid. Such an historic name. One of their forebears was strung up by James I, somewhere in St Albans… he would look it up when he got home.)

“What sort of woman is she?”

“Oh, very odd. Yes, you could certainly say that. She just comes in, points to something or other, let’s say a candelabra, and takes it away.”

Bátky was deep in thought.

They arrived at his flat. While Jenny was making the tea (the bit she most genuinely enjoyed in the whole
relationship
) he looked up the Rothesays. One had indeed been hanged. His mind’s eye conjured up a Scottish loch… the traditional two greyhounds sitting at the castle entrance… the melancholy Earl (a passionate collector of ivories)
tippling
the night away in the curve of a bay window, secretly and alone… Her Ladyship, a secret Catholic sympathiser, admitting Jesuit priests disguised as doctors through doors concealed by wallpaper… Clouds drifting across the sky in doom-laden shapes.

Once tea was over Jenny sat passively awaiting her womanly fate. Bátky remained silent.

“Now,” he was thinking, “if this Jenny were Lady Rothesay, I would say to her: ‘My lady, how can you do this? How could you gamble thus with your good name, when Mrs Bird next door is forever spying on us?…  And besides… how could a Rothesay, whose ancestor was hanged in such tragic circumstances, lower herself to the level of someone like me, a base commoner, a mere academic? But hark!…
the Earl’s bloodhounds are closing in… you must fly, my lady, fly this instant! And as she was leaving, standing in the doorway with her proud head high, he would declare: ‘Oh my lady, stay, if only for a fleeting moment longer! Stay, whatever cruel Fate may bring…’”

And he threw himself at Jenny’s feet. Somewhat
embarrassed
, she stroked his hair. She had seen it all many times before.

Then everything took its usual course.

Yet again, Jenny managed to forget some item of her clothing, and when she called back she found Bátky in a terminally bitter mood. He had been reflecting on the way his whole life had been frittered away on a procession of frightful little Jennys, when ever since boyhood he had yearned for a Lady Rothesay. History held the sort of erotic charge for him that others found in actresses’
dressing
rooms—a truly great passion required three or four centuries’ historical background at the very least. As for Jenny… it was all just lies and onanism.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked.

“Nothing. Just don’t bother coming here again. Women with scrubby red hands should stay at home. And get some of that fat off your thighs. Why don’t you just disappear?”

For whole days he mooched about the eternally silent streets where he imagined the English aristocracy resided when in London. Occasionally a large delivery truck would pass through, bearing the name of some famous London firm. “That can only mean a soirée somewhere,” he thought, and his pulse quickened. Once or twice he managed to
exchange a few words with the wife and dependents of a doorman.

“The most striking feature of the aristocracy is their
invisibility
,” he confided to his notebook. After further thought he added: “Blondes are generally averse to fish, but go into ecstasies when served spider crabs.”

By Sunday his aristocratic solitude had begun to oppress him, and he took himself off to Regent’s Park with the idea of adding one of the strolling shop girls to his repertoire of conquests. Most of the time he spent watching the squirrels. There were vast numbers of them entertaining the crowd. There were also dogs. One especially
interesting
black creature, not unlike a Scottish terrier but much bigger and altogether more diabolical-looking (no doubt some newfangled breed) trotted by in front of him. It was followed by a woman, whom it was dragging along in some agitation. It seemed to be looking for something, sniffing the ground with an air of busy anxiety. Finally it paused before a sort of memorial. With all the happy excitement of a purpose about to be fulfilled it prepared to transact its real business. But some inner obstruction appeared to be frustrating the process, which threatened to become rather drawn out. The dog circled round in a series of bizarre bodily contortions that were painful to behold. A crowd of little boys watched with great interest, providing an expert running commentary. The lady turned her back on the scene in some distress.

“I’ll keep an eye on him, if you like,” said Bátky. “Perhaps you might go and feed the squirrels.”

“Good idea,” she replied, and handed him the leash.

“Excuse me,” he called after her. “What’s your dog’s name?”

“Madelon,” she replied, and strolled away.

When Bátky arrived back at his tiny flat that evening he was richer by a dog. He had lost the woman in the crowd. It occurred to him that dogs have very sure instincts, and he decided to entrust himself to her guidance. They went for a stroll on Hampstead Heath, where they paused to admire the artificial lake at the top of the hill. Madelon trotted along in happy silence. They walked for hours. It was late evening by the time they reached Golders Green, where the city proper ends. Here the dog made an abrupt turn and calmly set off back towards town. Bátky realised she had tricked him. Sacrificing the money for the next day’s lunch he hailed a taxi and took her home.

It was a difficult night. She refused to eat or drink. She eyed his furniture suspiciously, then crawled into a corner and howled. Towards dawn he could stand it no longer. He went out to an all-night tearoom, laid his head on the marble table top and caught a few hours’ sleep.

The sun rose next morning in the sign of the dog. Bátky went home. The animal was still alive. She lay on his bed, sleeping soundly, and looking for all the world like a lady’s black shawl with a fringe. The instant she set eyes on him she growled testily. And she still wouldn’t eat.

He flopped into an armchair and attempted to order his thoughts. What was to be done with her? He thought of offering her to the Kensington Museum—they had several
stuffed dogs on display—but his kindly heart baulked at the idea. Perhaps he should keep her, train her, and try to make friends with her? Human will-power could sometimes bring about wonders. By degrees he reconciled himself to the notion.

“We’ll get used to one another,” he told himself. “I’ve always longed for a pet, to stop me being so lonely. It’s a pity the only time she’ll ever get off the bed will be to wet the marble slab by the fireplace.”

Whenever the tipsy cleaning lady scolded him he just listened in silence with his head hanging down. He was used to being misunderstood.

“No doubt, after a month or two, I’ll get her to come walking with me. One fine spring afternoon we’ll be
strolling
in Regent’s Park and we’ll happen to meet the lady I had her from. ‘Madam,’ I shall say, ‘as you see, I have faithfully watched over that which you entrusted to me. Madelon has grown a little since then, it is true, and yes, she has put on a little weight, perhaps, but not enough to harm her figure. Obviously she’s spent the last few months in serious intellectual company. I don’t believe it’s done her any harm.’

“And one thing would lead to another, we’d go and have tea, then to the cinema, who knows…?” The lady, so far as he could remember, was rather attractive and engaging, with wonderfully square shoulders… simply dressed, but in excellent taste. Obviously the wife of a young but
successful
tobacco merchant… her father a respectable greying functionary in a large insurance company… all living in
a little house somewhere, East Ealing perhaps, in one of those streets with sixty addresses on either side of the road, all exactly the same, with more or less identical lives being led inside them. Oh, the English lower middle classes, with their five-o’clock teas, their tranquil winter evenings by the fire, the single words let drop once every half-hour, most probably about the Prince of Wales…

In the afternoon the bell rang. Bátky roused himself from his reverie about the middle classes and opened the door. There stood the lady.

“I’ve come for Madelon,” she said simply.

“Oh… oh… and oh again!” he said, lost in contemplation of the strange workings of fate. “Do take a chair. Madelon is still alive. But how ever did you find me? London is so large…”

“It was very easy,” she replied. “You gave me this book to hold yesterday, while you took care of her. There was a letter inside addressed to János Bátky, Francis Street, London… I thought that must be you. I came in the afternoon hoping to find you at home. I really must apologise… I can imagine what Madelon got up to in the night… you poor man!”

“Oh, we were just beginning to make friends,” Bátky replied modestly. “I stroked her the whole night. I thought you would have done the same. I kept thinking that it was your hand touching her.”

“How very kind,” she said, and took off her hat.

Now for the first time Bátky noticed how handsome she was. (“I’ve always adored tobacconists’ wives. Their hair has something of the rich gold of the finest Virginia.”)

They made tea, and while she was pouring it Bátky took the opportunity to record on a slip of paper: “Love affairs usually start in either September or January.”

After tea he sat at her feet and laid his head on her lap. He imagined that they were now at home, in her home, in East Ealing… family photos hanging on the wall… the grandfather with huge whiskery sideburns… Christmas carols playing on the gramophone… everything serene and unchanging, the British Empire on its mighty foundations, and Madelon playing with a kitten beside the hearth.

Her lips had the taste of home-made strawberry jam. Her movements, as she undressed, were calm and placid, as if tomorrow were another day. Her whole being radiated such complete self-assurance he quite forgot to wonder at his unexpected conquest. Apparently it was what everyone did in this country after tea. Even Jenny.

“I’ll come again,” she said, some time towards evening.

“I’d be delighted,” he replied with conviction. “Won’t you tell me your name?”

“Oh, I thought you’d recognised me. You must have seen my picture in the papers—it’s there often enough. I am Lady Rothesay.”

And off she went.

This parting note unsettled Bátky. He placed a high value on truthfulness in other people. He had many times broken off with a woman because she said she’d been at the dentist when she had in fact been with another man. “Why was she so ashamed to be the wife of a young but successful tobacconist? These English are incurable snobs. If I had
a little house in East Ealing, and a whiskery grandfather hanging on the wall, I would never dream of denying it.”

Her falsehood depressed him so much he couldn’t bring himself to fall in love with her. Once more his loneliness pressed down on him like a slowly lowered ceiling. The same gloom as always darkened the London streets. A fine drizzle was falling. On Camden Hill elderly gentlemen strolled towards their eternal rest. In Kensington alone there were two million old ladies. Life was quite meaningless… Somewhere, deep inside a Scottish castle, or in some dark avenue of ancient trees, the deranged wife of an earl was putting an end to it all…

One day she appeared on his doorstep again.

Once again, they spent a very pleasant afternoon. Bátky was in an intimate and sentimental frame of mind, talking about Budapest, where the cafés spilled a warm, cosy light onto the pavement, the waiters knew exactly which paper you liked to read, and the mysterious lower orders cleared the lovely white snow overnight.