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Chapter 8 7 страница
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'It was a mistake, ' said Francis. 'He has to understand, ' 'Maybe, ' I said. I couldn't conceive of his finding out, but as I tried to visualize myself explaining this catastrophe to someone, I realized that we would have an easier time explaining it to Julian than to anyone else. Perhaps, I thought, his reaction would be similar to my own. Perhaps he would see these murders as a sad, wild thing, haunted and picturesque (Tve done everything, ' old Tolstoy used to boast, 'I've even killed a man'), instead of the basically selfish, evil act which it was.
'You know that thingjulian used to say, ' said Francis.
'Which thing? '
'About a Hindu saint being able to slay a thousand on the battlefield and it not being a sin unless he felt remorse. '
I had heard Julian say this, but had never understood what he meant. 'We're not Hindus, ' I said.
'Richard, ' Julian said, in a tone which simultaneously welcomed me and let me know that I had come at a bad time.
'Is Henry here? I need to talk to him about something. '
He looked surprised. 'Of course, ' he said, and opened the door.
Henry was sitting at the table where we did our Greek. Julian's empty chair, on the side by the window, was pulled close to his.
There were other papers on the table but the letter was in front of them. He glanced up. He did not look pleased to see me.
'Henry, may I speak to you? '
'Certainly, ' he said coldly.
I turned, to step into the hall, but he didn't make a move to follow. He was avoiding my eye. Damn him, I thought. He thought I was trying to continue our earlier conversation in the garden.
'Could you come out here for a minute? ' I said.
'What is it? '
'I need to tell you something. '
He raised an eyebrow. 'You mean, it's something you want to tell me in private? he said.
1 could have killed him. Julian, politely, had been pretending not to follow this exchange, but his curiosity was aroused by this.
He was standing, waiting, behind his chair. 'Oh, dear, ' he said. 'I hope nothing's wrong. Shall I leave? '
'Oh, no, Julian, ' said Henry, looking not at Julian but at me.
'Don't bother. '
'Is everything all right? ' Julian asked me.
'Yes, yes, ' I said. 'I just need to see Henry for a second. It's kind of important. '
'Can't it wait? ' said Henry.
The letter was spread out on the table. With horror, I saw that he was turning through it slowly, like a book, pretending to examine the pages one by one. He hadn't seen the letterhead.
He didn't know it was there.
'Henry, ' I said. 'It's an emergency. I have to talk to you right now. '
He was struck by the urgency in my voice. He stopped, and pivoted in his chair to look at me – they were both staring now – and as he did, as part of the motion of turning, he turned over the page in his hand. My heart did a somersault. There was the letterhead, face-up on the table. White palace drawn in blue curlicues.
'All right, ' said Henry. Then, to Julian: 'I'm sorry. We'll be back in a moment. '
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'Certainly, ' said Julian. He looked grave and concerned. 'I hope nothing's the matter. '
I wanted to cry. I had Henry's attention; I had it, now, but I didn't want it. The letterhead lay exposed on the table.
'What's wrong? ' said Henry, his eyes locked on mine.
He was attentive, poised as a cat. Julian was looking at me too. The letter lay on the table, between them, directly in Julian's line of vision. He had only to glance down.
I darted my eyes at the letter, then at Henry. He understood in an instant, turned smooth but fast; but he wasn't fast enough, and in that split-second, Julian looked down – casually, just an afterthought, but a second too soon.
I do not like to think about the silence that followed. Julian leaned over and looked at the letterhead for a long time. Then he picked up the page and examined it. Excekior. Via Veneto. Blue-inked battlements. I felt curiously light and empty-headed.
Julian put on his glasses and sat down. He looked through the whole thing, very carefully, front and back. I heard kids laughing, faintly, somewhere outside. At last he folded the letter and put it in the inside pocket of his jacket.
'Well, ' he said at last. 'Well, well, well. '
As is true of most incipient bad things in life, I had not really prepared myself for this possibility. And what I felt, standing there, was not fear or remorse but only terrible, crushing humiliation, a dreadful, red-faced shame I hadn't felt since childhood.
And what was even worse was to see Henry, and to realize that he was feeling the same thing, and if anything, more acutely than myself. I hated him – was so angry I wanted to kill him – but somehow I was not prepared to see him like that.
Nobody said anything. Dust motes floated in a sunbeam. I thought of Camilla at the Albemarle, Charles in the hospital, Francis waiting trustfully in the car.
'Julian, ' said Henry, 'I can explain this. '
'Please do, ' said Julian.
His voice chilled me to the bone. Though he and Henry had in common a distinct coldness of manner – sometimes, around them, the very temperature seemed almost to drop -1 had always thought Henry's coldness essential, to the marrow, and Julian's only a veneer for what was, at bottom, a warm and kindhearted nature. But the twinkle in Julian's eye, as I looked at him now, was mechanical and dead. It was as if the charming theatrical curtain had dropped away and I saw him for the first time as he really was: not the benign old sage, the indulgent and protective good-parent of my dreams, but ambiguous, a moral neutral, whose beguiling trappings concealed a being watchful, capricious, and heartless.
Henry started to talk. It was so painful to hear him – Henry!
– stumble over his words that I am afraid I blocked out much of what he said. He began, in typical fashion, by attempting to justify himself but that soon faltered in the white glare of Julian's silence. Then – I still shudder to remember it – a desperate, pleading note crept into his voice. 'I disliked having to lie, of course' – disliked! as if he were talking about an ugly necktie, a dull dinner party! – 'we never wanted to lie to you, but it was necessary. That is, I felt it was necessary. The first matter was an accident; there was no use in worrying you about it, was there?
And then, with Bunny… He wasn't a happy person in those last months. I'm sure you know that. He was having a lot of personal problems, problems with his family…'
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He went on and on. Julian's silence was vast, arctic. A black buzzing noise echoed in my head., ' can't stand this, I thought, I've got to leave, but still Henry talked, and still I stood there, and the sicker and blacker I felt to hear Henry's voice and to see the look on Julian's face.
Unable to stand it, I finally turned to go. Julian saw me do it.
Abruptly, he cut Henry off. 'That's enough, ' he said.
There was an awful pause. I stared at him. This is it, I thought, with a kind of fascinated horror. He won't listen anymore. He doesn't want to be left alone with him.
Julian reached into his pocket. The expression on his face was impossible to read. He took the letter out and handed it to Henry.
'I think you'd better keep this, ' he said.
He didn't get up from the table. The two of us left his office without a word. Funny, when I think about it now. That was the last time I ever saw him.
Henry and I didn't speak in the hallway. Slowly, we drifted out, eyes averted, like strangers. As I went down the stairs he was standing by the windowsill on the landing, looking out, blind and unseeing.
Francis was panic-stricken when he saw the look on my face.
'Oh, no, ' he said. 'Oh, my God. What's happened? '
It was a long time before I could say anything. 'Julian saw it, '
I said.
'What? '
'He saw the letterhead. Henry's got it now. '
'How'd he get it? '
'Julian gave it to him. '
Francis was jubilant. 'He gave it to him? He gave Henry the letter? '
'Yes. '
'And he's not going to tell anyone? '
'No, I don't think so. '
He was startled by the gloom in my voice.
'But what's the matter? ' he said shrilly. 'You got it, didn't you?
It's okay. Everything's all right now. Isn't it? '
I was staring out the car window, at the window of Julian's office.
'No, ' I said, 'no, I don't really think that it is. '
Years ago, in an old notebook, I wrote: 'One of Julian's most attractive qualities is his inability to see anyone, or anything, in its true light. ' And under it, in a different ink, 'maybe one of my most attractive qualities, as well (? )'
It has always been hard for me to talk about Julian without romanticizing him. In many ways, I loved him the most of all; I and it is with him that i am most tempted to embroider, to. ^ flatter, to basically reinvent. I think that is because Julian himself "
" was constantly in the process of reinventing the people and events around him, conferring kindness, or wisdom, or bravery, or charm, on actions which contained nothing of the sort. It was one of the reasons I loved him: for that flattering light in which he saw me, for the person I was when I was with him, for what it was he allowed me to be.
Now, of course, it would be easy for me to veer to the opposite extreme. I could say that the secret of Julian's charm was that he latched on to young people who wanted to feel better than everybody else; that he had a strange gift for twisting feelings of inferiority into superiority and arrogance. I could also say that he did this not through altruistic motives but selfish ones, in order to fulfill some egotistic impulse of his own. And I could elaborate on this at some length and with, I believe, a fair degree of accuracy. But still that would not explain the fundamental magic of his personality or why – even in the light of subsequent events – I still have an overwhelming wish to see him the way that I first saw him: as the wise old man who appeared to me out of nowhere on a desolate strip of road, with a bewitching offer to make all my dreams come true.
But even in fairy tales, these kindly old gentlemen with their fascinating offers are not always what they seem to be. That should not be a particularly difficult truth for me to accept at this point but for some reason it is. More than anything I wish I could say that Julian's face crumbled when he heard what we had done.
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I wish I could say that he put his head on the table and wept, wept for Bunny, wept for us, wept for the wrong turns and the life wasted: wept for himself, for being so blind, for having over and over again refused to see.
And the thing is, I had a strong temptation to say he had done these things anyway, though it wasn't at all the truth.
George Orwell – a keen observer of what lay behind the glitter of constructed facades, social and otherwise – had met Julian on several occasions, and had not liked him. To a friend he wrote: 'Upon meeting Julian Morrow, one has the impression that he is a man of extraordinary sympathy and warmth. But what you call his " Asiatic serenity" is, I think, a mask for great coldness. The face one shows him he invariably reflects back at one, creating the illusion of warmth and depth when in fact he is brittle and shallow as a mirror. Acton' – this, apparently, Harold Acton, who was also in Paris then and a friend to both Orwell and Julian 'disagrees.
But I think he is not a man to be trusted. '
I have thought a great deal about this passage, also about a particularly shrewd remark once made by, of all people, Bunny.
'Y'know, ' he said, 'Julian is like one of those people that'll pick all his favorite chocolates out of the box and leave the rest. ' This seems rather enigmatic on the face of it, but actually I cannot think of a better metaphor for Julian's personality. It is similar to another remark made to me once by Georges Laforgue, on an occasion when I had been extolling Julian to the skies. 'Julian, ' he said curtly, 'will never be a scholar of the very first rate, and that is because he is only capable of seeing things on a selective basis. '
When I disagreed – strenuously – and asked what was wrong with focusing one's entire attention on only two things, if those two things were Art and Beauty, Laforgue replied: 'There is nothing wrong with the love of Beauty. But Beauty – unless she is wed to something more meaningful – is always superficial. It is not that your Julian chooses solely to concentrate on certain, exalted things; it is that he chooses to ignore others equally as important. '
It's funny. In retelling these events, I have fought against a tendency to sentimentalize Julian, to make him seem very saintly – basically to falsify him – in order to make our veneration of him seem more explicable; to make it seem something more, in short, than my own fatal tendency to try to make interesting people good. And I know I said earlier that he was perfect but he wasn't perfect, far from it; he could be silly and vain and remote and often cruel and still we loved him, in spite of, because.
Charles was released from the hospital the following day. Despite Francis's insistence that he come to his house for a while, he insisted on going home to his own apartment. His cheeks were sunken; he'd lost a lot of weight and he needed a haircut. He was sullen and depressed. We didn't tell him what had happened.
I felt sorry for Francis. I could tell he was worried about Charles, and upset that he was so hostile and uncommunicative.
'Would you like some lunch? ' he asked him.
'No. '
'Come on. Let's go to the Brasserie. '
'I'm not hungry. '
'It'll be good. I'll buy you one of those roulage things you like for dessert. '
We went to the Brasserie. It was eleven o'clock in the morning.
By an unfortunate coincidence, the waiter sat us at the table by the window where Francis and I had sat with Julian less than twenty-four hours before. Charles wouldn't look at a menu. He ordered two Bloody Marys and drank them in quick succession.
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Then he ordered a third.
Francis and I put down our forks and exchanged an uneasy glance.
'Charles, ' Francis said, 'why don't you get an omelet or something? '
'I told you I'm not hungry. '
Francis picked up a menu and gave it a quick once-over. Then he motioned to the waiter.
'I said I'm not fucking hungry, ' said Charles without looking up.
He was having a hard time keeping his cigarette balanced between his first and middle fingers.
Nobody had much to say after that. We finished eating and got the check, not before Charles had time to finish his third Bloody Mary and order a fourth. We had to help him to the car.
I was not much looking forward to going to Greek class, but when Monday rolled around I got up and went anyway. Henry and Camilla arrived separately – in case Charles decided to show up, I think – which, thank God, he didn't. Henry, I noticed, was puffy and very pale. He stared out the window and ignored Francis and me.
Camilla was nervous – embarrassed, maybe, by the way Henry was acting. She was anxious to hear about Charles and asked a number of questions, to most of which she didn't receive any response at all. Soon it was ten after; then fifteen.
'I've never known Julian to be this late, ' said Camilla, looking at her watch.
Suddenly, Henry cleared his throat. His voice was strange and rusty, as if fallen into disuse. 'He's not coming, ' he said.
We turned to look at him.
'What? ' said Francis.
'I don't think he's going to come today. '
Just then we heard footsteps, and a knock at the door. It wasn't Julian, but the Dean of Studies. He creaked open the door and looked inside.
'Well, well, ' he said. He was a sly, balding man in his early fifties who had a reputation for being kind of a smart-aleck. 'So this is what the Inner Sanctum looks like. The Holy of Holies.
I've never once been allowed up here. '
We looked at him.
'Not bad, ' he said ruminatively. 'I remember about fifteen years ago, before they built the new Science Building, they had to stick some of the counselors up here. This one psychologist liked to leave her door open, thought it gave things a friendly feeling. " Good morning, " she'd say to Julian whenever he walked past her door, " have a nice day. " Can you believe that Julian phoned Charming Williams, my wicked predecessor, and threat ened to quit unless she was moved? " He chuckled. ' " That dreadful woman. " That's what he called her. " I can't bear that dreadful woman accosting me every time I happen to walk by. " '
This was a story which had some currency around Hampden, and the Dean had left some of it out. The psychologist had not only left her own door open but also had tried to get Julian to do the same.
'To tell the truth, ' said the Dean, 'I'd expected something a little more classical. Oil lamps. Discus throwing. Nude youths wrestling on the floor. '
'What do you want? ' said Camilla, not very politely.
He paused, caught short, and gave her an oily smile. 'We need to have a little talk, ' he said. 'My office has just learned that Julian has been called away from school very suddenly. He has taken an indefinite leave of absence and does not know when he might return. Needless to say' – a phrase he delivered with sarcastic delicacy – 'this puts you all in a rather interesting position in terms of academics, especially as it is only three weeks until the end of term. I understand that he was not in the habit of giving a written examination? '
We stared at him.
'Did you write papers? Sing songs? How was he accustomed to determining your final grade? '
'An oral examination for the tutorials, ' Camilla said, 'as well as a term paper for the Civilization class. ' She was the only one of us who was collected enough to speak. 'For the composition classes, an extended translation, English to Greek, from a passage of his choosing. '
The Dean pretended to ponder this. Then he took a breath and said: 'The problem you face, as I'm sure you're aware, is that we currently have no other teacher able to take over your class.
Mr Delgado has a reading knowledge of Greek, and though he says he'd be happy to look at your written work he is teaching a full load this term. Julian himself was most unhelpful on this point. I asked him to suggest a possible replacement and he said there wasn't any that he knew of. '
He took a piece of paper from his pocket. 'Now here are the three possible alternatives which occur to me. The first is for you to take incompletes and finish the course work in the fall. The thing is, however, I'm far from certain that Literature and Languages will be hiring another Classics teacher. There is so little interest in the subject, and the general consensus seems to be that it should be phased out, especially now that we're attempting to get the new Semiotics department off the ground. '
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He took a deep breath. 'The second alternative is for you to take incompletes and finish the work in summer school. The third possibility is that we bring in – mind you, on a temporary basis a substitute teacher. Understand this. At this point in time it is extremely doubtful that we will continue to offer the degree in Classics at Hampden. For those of you who choose to remain with us, I feel sure that the English department can absorb you with minimal loss of credit hours, though I think each of you in order to fulfill the department requirements are looking at two semesters of work above and beyond what you might've anticipated for graduation. At any rate. ' He looked at his list. 'I am sure you have heard of Hackett, the preparatory school for boys, ' he said. 'Hack ett has extensive offerings in the field of Classics. I contacted the headmaster this morning and he said he would be happy to send a master over twice a week to supervise you. Though this might seem the best option from your perspective, it would by no means be ideal, relying, as it does, upon the auspices of the '
It was at this moment that Charles chose to come crashing through the door.
He lurched in, looked around. Though he might not have been intoxicated technically, that very instant, he had been so recently enough for this to be an academic point. His shirttails hung out. His hair fell in long dirty strings over his eyes.
'What? ' he said, after a moment. 'Where's Julian? '
'Don't you knock? ' said the Dean.
Charles turned, unsteadily, and looked at him.
'What's this? ' he said. 'Who the hell are you? '
'I, ' said the Dean sweetly, 'am the Dean of Studies. '
'What have you done with Julian? '
'He has left you. And somewhat in the lurch if I dare say it.
He has been called very suddenly from the country and doesn't know – or hasn't thought – about his return. He gave me to understand that it was something with the State Department, the Isrami government and all that. I think we are fortunate not to have had more problems of this nature, with the princess having gone to school here. One thinks at the time only of the prestige of such a pupil, alas, and not for an instant of the possible repercussions. Though I can't for the life of me imagine what the Isramis would want with Julian. Hampden's own Salman Rushdie. ' He chuckled appreciatively, then consulted his sheet again. 'At any rate. I have arranged for the master from Hackett to meet with you tomorrow, here, at three p. m. I hope there is no conflict of schedule for anyone. If that happens to be the case, however, it would be well for you to re-evaluate your priorities, as this is the only time that he will be available to answer your I knew that Camilla hadn't seen Charles in well over a week, and I knew she couldn't have been prepared to see him looking so bad, but she was gazing at him with an expression not so much of surprise as of panic, and horror. Even Henry looked taken aback.
'… and, of course, this will entail a certain spirit of compromise on your parts too, as '
'What? ' said Charles, interrupting him. 'What did you say?
You said Julian's gone? '
'I must compliment you, young man, on your grasp of the English language. '
'What happened? He just picked up and left? '
'In essence, yes.
There was a brief pause. Then Charles said, in a loud, clear voice: 'Henry, why do I think for some reason that this is all your fault? '
There followed a long and not too pleasant silence. Then Charles spun and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.
The Dean cleared his throat.
'As I was saying, ' he continued.
It is strange, but true, to relate, that at this point in time I was still capable of being upset by the fact that my career at Hampden had pretty much gone down the drain. When the Dean had said 'two extra semesters, ' my blood ran cold. I knew, with the certainty I knew that night follows day, there was no way I could get my parents to make their measly, but quite necessary, contribution for an extra year. I'd lost time already, in three changes of major, in the transfer from California, and I'd lose even more if I transferred again – assuming that I could even get into another school, that I could get another scholarship, with my spotty records, with my spotty grades: why, I asked myself, oh, why, had I been so foolish, why hadn't I picked something and stuck with it, how was it that I could currently be at the end of my third year of college and have basically nothing to show for it?
What made me angrier was that none of the others seemed to care. To them, I knew, this didn't make the slightest bit of difference. What was it to them if they had to go an extra term?
What did it matter, if they failed to graduate, if they had to go back home? At least they had homes to go to. They had trust funds, allowances, dividend checks, doting grandmas, well connected uncles, loving families. College for them was only a way station, a sort of youthful diversion. But this was my main chance, the only one. And I had blown it.
I spent a frantic couple of hours pacing in my room – that is, I'd come to think of it as 'mine' but it wasn't really, I had to be out in three weeks, already it seemed to be assuming a heartless air of impersonality – and drafting a memo to the financial aid office. The only way I could finish my degree – in essence, the only way I could ever acquire the means to support myself in any passably tolerable fashion – was if Hampden agreed to shoulder the entire cost of my education during this additional year. I pointed out, somewhat aggressively, that it wasn't my fault Julian had decided to leave. I brought up every miserable commendation and award I'd won since the eighth grade. I argued that a year of classics could only bolster and enrich this now highly desirable course of study in English Literature.
Finally, my plea finished, and my handwriting a passionate scrawl, I fell down on my bed and went to sleep. At eleven o'clock I woke, made some changes, and headed for the all-night study room to type it up. On the way I stopped at the post office, where, to my immense gratification, a note in my box informed me that I had got the job apartment-sitting in Brooklyn, and that the professor wanted to meet with me sometime in the coming week to discuss my schedule.
Well, that's the summer taken care of, I thought.
It was a beautiful night, full moon, the meadow like silver and the housefronts throwing square black shadows sharp as cutouts on the grass. Most of the windows were dark: everyone sleeping, early to bed. I hurried across the lawn to the library, where the lights of the all-night study room – The House of Eternal Learning, ' Bunny had called it in happier days – burned clear and bright on the top floor, shining yellow through the treetops. I went up the outside stairs – iron stairs, like a fire escape, like the steps in my nightmare – my shoes clattering on the metal in a way that might have given me the heebie-jeebies in a less distracted mood.
Then, through the window, I saw a dark figure in a black suit, alone. It was Henry. Books were piled in front of him but he wasn't working. For some reason, 1 thought of that February night I had seen him standing in the shadows beneath the windows of Dr Roland's office, dark and solitary, hands in the pockets of his overcoat and the snow whirling high in the empty arc of the streetlights.
I closed the door. 'Henry, ' I said. 'Henry. It's me. '
He didn't turn his head. 'I just got back from Julian's house, ' he said, in a monotone.
I sat down. 'And? '
'The place is shut up. He's gone. '
There was a long silence.
'I find it very hard to believe he's done this, you know. ' The light glinted off his spectacles; beneath the dark, glossy hair his face was deadly pale. 'It's just such a cowardly thing to have done. That's why he left, you know. Because he was afraid. '
The screens were open. A damp wind rustled in the trees.
Beyond them clouds sailed over the moon, fast and wild.
Henry took off his glasses. I never could get used to seeing him without them, that naked, vulnerable look he always had.
'He's a coward, ' he said. 'In our circumstance, he would have done exactly what we did. He's just too much of a hypocrite to admit it. '
I didn't say anything.
'He doesn't even care that Bunny is dead. I could forgive him if that was why he felt this way, but it isn't. He wouldn't care if we'd killed half a dozen people. All that matters to him is keeping his own name out of it. Which is essentially what he said when I talked to him last night. '
'You went to see him? '
'Yes. One would hope that this matter would've seemed something more to him than just a question of his own comfort.
Even to have turned us in would have shown some strength of character, not that I wanted to be turned in. But it's nothing but cowardice. Running away like this. '
Even after all that had happened, the bitterness and disappointment in his voice cut me to the heart.
'Henry, ' I said. I wanted to say something profound, that Julian was only human, that he was old, that flesh and blood are frail and weak and that there comes a time when we have to transcend our teachers. But I found myself unable to say anything at all.
He turned his blind, unseeing eyes upon me.
'I loved him more than my own father, ' he said. 1 loved him more than anyone in the world. '
The wind was up. A gentle pitter of rain swept across the roof.
We sat there like that, not talking, for a very long time.
The next afternoon at three, I went to meet the new teacher.
When I stepped inside Julian's office I was shocked. It was completely empty. The books, the rugs, the big round table were gone. All that was left were the curtains on the windows and a tacked-up Japanese print that Bunny had given him. Camilla was there, and Francis, looking pretty uncomfortable, and Henry. He was standing by the window doing his best to ignore the stranger.
The teacher had dragged in some chairs from the dining hall. He was a round-faced, fair-haired man of about thirty, in turtleneck and jeans. A wedding band shone conspicuously on one pink hand; he had a conspicuous smell of after-shave. 'Welcome, ' he said, leaning to shake my hand, and in his voice I heard the enthusiasm and condescension of a man accustomed to working with adolescents. 'My name is Dick Spence. Yours? '
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