The Eye of the Storm (51 page)

T
HOUGH HE
went to bed conscious of having degraded an innocent creature, then condemned her to share in his own disgustful mortification, he woke without any feeling of guilt. In fact less than guilty: under cover of sleep, that scene at the water's edge, searing though it was at the time, could have been sharpening his intentions, steeling his will.

He would have liked to telephone somebody, almost anyone would have done, to hear his own voice, and try out a thrust or two; but it was still too early. Instead he drew up the blinds on a green dawn, or what could be seen of it above the roofs, amongst the telly aerials and branches of defoliated plane trees. Time and light at work on the forms of man-made ugliness both chilled and exhilarated, as they had, he remembered, on the first of his visits to Mitty Jacka.

In a fit of frustration he sat down at the pretence of a desk and began doodling words on the hotel writing-paper. The Jacka might have approved: to watch the long pale worm-thing's first attempts at uncoiling itself in non-play:

Scene: A Room. Table, chairs, a gas fire. The presence of
ACTORS
should make other furniture unnecessary.

ACTOR'S IST WIFE.
Can't you see, darling? What she must convey in picking up this cup is the abject humility her husband's behaviour has driven her to, but which at the same time may be a sort of
pseudo-
humility— something she may eventually throw off. I mean, the gesture should not convey despair pure and simple, because there's the possibility of re-birth.

ACTOR
(undoing his collar button).
Oh, come off it, darling! It's
two o'clock. If we don't get our sleep we'll look like a couple of silkworms at rehearsal.

IST WIFE.
I've got to work this out. Always, Basil, always, if somebody not yourself is making a serious effort to break through, you have to kill it with flippancy.
(Pours herself half a cup of whiskey.)

ACTOR.
You'd break through all right, Shiela, if you'd realize it's a paper hoop, not a stone wall.

(IST WIFE
sniffs, sulks, gulps from the cup she is holding.)

IST WIFE.
I've always understood nothing is worth anything if it hasn't been a struggle.

ACTOR.
Constipation in the theatre doesn't pay, believe me. In some London basement perhaps, with half a dozen hand-woven devotees in front; not when you take it on the road.

(IST WIFE
sits holding the cup as though she hopes to abstract some first principle from it.)

ACTOR
. And don't you know you're drinking whiskey out of that bloody cup? A cup!

IST WIFE.
Yes. A cup. Why not? A cup is so much more
real
than a glass.

ACTOR
(grabbing the bottle).
By that token, not as real as a bottle!
(He swallows a good slug, then lets out a burp ending in blatant laughter.)

IST WIFE.
For God's sake! You'll wake the child!

ACTOR.
Yes, poor innocent! Find out about it the
real
way!

IST WIFE
(guzzling whiskey).
You should feel less responsible. She's hardly yours, is she?

ACTOR
. As you never stop reminding me.

(IST WIFE
takes the bottle and pours herself another generous one.)

IST WIFE
(warming the cup drunkenly against her cheek).
I'll love her! How I'll love her!

ACTOR.
Not if it's like your acting. No one ever loved by head alone.

IST WIFE
(shickered snicker).
Oh, fuck off! I'll love my child—
when I've learnt how you do it. That's something nobody—not you, not Len Bottomley—can teach me. I've got to work it out for myself.

ACTOR.
I've often wondered, Shiela, what Len has that I haven't.

IST WIFE.
He tells me I'm good. What he means by ‘good' is that I'm a ‘subtle actress', in case you misunderstood me.

ACTOR.
What I don't understand is why you don't go off and live with Len? Why not marry him? I'd divorce you.

IST WIFE.
He may be a dear decent ordinary man—and I must say I'm deeply appreciative of ordinariness—but I couldn't live with, let alone marry—a bad actor.

(She drifts
OFF
with cup.)

ACTOR
(tilting his chair).
Principles could have been her downfall—more than the booze.

SCENE FADES
into a
LIMBO
of half light in which the
ACTOR
is still visible and gradually the
FIGURE OF A WOMAN.
She is wearing a black kimono embroidered in silver and raw liver.

WOMAN
(approaching, putting a hand in his hair).
That's a start. But you're still only telling the truth about other people.

ACTOR.
Give me a chance, won't you? I'm only beginning.

WOMAN.
It ought to be easier after you've done the murder. It ought to flow.

ACTOR.
I'll bring on the Second Wife. There's no one like Enid for telling others the truth about themselves. Enid can make turnips bleed.

WOMAN
. It's you who have to do the murder.

ACTOR.
Give a bloke a chance. I'll ring my sister later on. It's too early for a princess.

WOMAN.
You're the star.

ACTOR.
I don't think I can face it, Mitty.

WOMAN.
Nothing to it. No blood—or not that anyone will see. Only half a dozen words—spoken kindly. Oh, come, Sir Basil Hunter!

ACTOR.
First I've got to learn my lines. Got to rehearse them.

WOMAN.
Enid will rehearse them with you.

ACTOR.
Yes. Enid.
(He is handed a magnificent robe which he slips on as ā disguise.)
And as you say, there's nothing to it. Half a dozen words …
(His lungs expand.)
… when I've got away with speeches lasting half a lifetime, and even for a fortnight the Lady Enid Bullshit herself.

SCENE:
A boudoir crammed with too many rare and incongruous bibelots. A desk at which
SECOND WIFE
sits writing. She is dressed in a rich stiff kaftan. Her head is that of a well-bred Borzoi.

2ND WIFE
(without turning).
Basil?

ACTOR.
I hoped you mightn't recognize me.

2ND WIFE.
Huh?
(writing away).
What is it, darling? You haven't come to interrupt me, have you?

ACTOR.
What are you writing, Enid?

2ND WIFE.
My memoirs of course.

ACTOR.
Still?

2ND WIFE
(dashing away).
Always! Isn't life one long incredible memoir? All the journeys, all the friends—the husbands!

ACTOR.
I want you to hear me my lines for this play in which I'm supposed to do a murder before committing suicide.

2ND WIFE
(writing).
What—again?
(crosses out something with vicious pen.)
In each case no doubt you'll survive—as on the other occasions.

ACTOR.
More likely not. This is the part I've never played.

2ND WIFE
(glancing through what she has written, correcting).
When I married an actor I thought it would mean going to bed with a different man every night. I found he always plays the same part—Himself.
(She looks up, gnashing her bitch's smile.)
Rather a boring part, too.

ACTOR.
That's how you become a star.
(His nerves remind him.)
Give them too much—which is what I'm proposing to do—and they may tear you to bits. Because it isn't what they expect of you.

2ND WIFE
(yawning).
It's time I went on a journey, Basil. I think I'll fly to the Sahara—get me a Tuareg. Besides being veiled, a Tuareg doesn't talk. His ego is essentially physical.

(She stretches, and the garment she is wearing is released. She is left with her long plume of a Borzoi tail, lean human breasts and thighs.)

SCENE FADES
into the
LIMBO
of semi-dark in which
FIGURE OF A WOMAN
in black silk kimono is visible.

WOMAN
(to
ACTOR).
Better, but it's you who must take your clothes off.
(Withdrawing)
It will probably come more easily after—after you've done the murder.

ACTOR
(mechanically).
Yes.

While he had been sitting at the desk scribbling, the light of morning had established itself so unequivocally in the hotel bedroom he saw that this must be the day when they would go out to Moreton Drive; it was in Dorothy's interest as much as his own to face Mother with the arrangements they were making for her future. As a result of his decision his face looked younger, he thought, his nails closely pared, the skin round his fingertips more clearly defined than usual.

He would ring Dorothy after he had drunk his coffee, as soon as he had shaved. Not that he had much respect for the princess his sister, but there were certain convenances he found it difficult not to observe. If affection were among them, it was because this morning at least he had to stress a collaboration she ought, but did not have to concede.

‘Who?' Before being told, she was sharpening her tone in defence.

‘Basil. Your brother.'

‘Oh.' She sighed; she cleared her throat; she was giving an amateurish performance as a woman woken earlier than her rule allows. ‘Oh,
Basil!'
She sighed, and coughed. ‘Of course your voice is unmistakable. It's only the suddenness. Haven't collected my wits yet.'

‘… know it's early, Dorothy. But this, I think, will be the day, darling.'

‘Which day?' A tone of suspicion, not to say hostility, was darkening her delivery.

‘The day we tell Mother what we've decided for her.'

‘Have we? Well, I know we've talked about it. But nothing's been positively arranged, has it?'

‘As good as. In my mind, anyway.'

‘You may kill her.' Dorothy spoke with such conviction she could only have intended to make him fully responsible.

‘Most old people are tough,' he heard himself repeating a lesson. ‘In case this one isn't, I'm asking you to come along with me. As a woman, you'll know how to soften the blow.' Ha-ha!

Dorothy was trying to impress him with the thought she was giving their grave situation. She sighed again, and even moaned once or twice, while in between (he recognized the technique) she was drinking her coffee.

‘Is it good?' he asked.

‘How do you mean—is it
good?'

‘The coffee.'

During the pause it might have been her stomach rumbling; then she said, ‘As a matter of fact it's the most ghastly awful stuff—not that I expected anything better.'

They enjoyed a sympathetic laugh together.

He said, ‘I know what neglect of the little important unimportant things does to your sensitivity, darling.'

She could have been lashing about in the bed. ‘Are you flattering me?' she asked.

‘Naturally. Haven't you found flattery pays?' Though it was too obvious she hadn't: Dorothy would not have known how to flatter, least of all the opposite sex.

She ignored his question. ‘What time do you want me?' She made it as coldly practical as the circumstances seemed to demand; so much so, he was taken aback.

‘Well, this morning, I suppose—since we're agreed.' If she
needed the moment pinned down more accurately, he was not capable of it—for the moment. ‘Should we coax the Wyburd along? As a sort of witness?'

‘An unwilling and disapproving one. No. Embarrassing and unnecessary. What time?' she persisted, it sounded irritably; and as though either of them could keep an appointment.

‘Well,' he hesitated, ‘towards the end of the morning—at Moreton Drive.'

‘Say eleven.'

‘If you're there.'

‘I'll be there. Then we'll get the morning nurse. She's the silliest—and under your spell, Basil, I should say.'

‘Sister Badgery?' He bridled.

‘Whatever her name, the skinny hen. It might be unwise for us to encounter the young one. She despises us for class reasons, while probably having hopes of Mummy; and you, Basil, could easily make a fool of yourself with anyone so pretty, and doubtless ambitious.'

He said, ‘It's far less complicated, at any time of day or night, than you would like to think. Leave it to me.'

Dorothy laughed. ‘That's my intention. It's what you want, isn't it?'

He was not sure. No, he didn't; he had wanted Dorothy to take the dagger.

Madame de Lascabanes had dressed for what looked, from behind the closed window of the club bedroom, a brisk day: the harbour waters slightly shirred, newspaper rising and flapping in gutters, the paintwork on recent buildings and a moored liner as glossy as the makers advertised. The princess was wearing one of those timeless suits designed to silence criticism of an austere figure by emphasis of its bones and angles. Daring, anyway in this department, had remained a paying investment. And this morning her thin mouth looked right: no need to invoke her eyes in defence of a face where experience had routed ugliness, at least temporarily. Yes, she was
pleased with her lack of compromise, in honour of which she had renounced jewellery even of a semi-precious variety. Why should she feel naked when realism was to be not only her weapon but her shield?