Dark Angel (47 page)

If he could concentrate well enough, he felt, the image would go away. He tried, but perhaps his concentration was poor, because the image remained there fixed in his mind, as it had been for some weeks.

Not such a terrible image, really. There were others, he supposed, that were worse—yet they did not intrude, as this one did. There it was again: a part of a man. Not a foot this time, or a hand; not even the hands which, stiffened by rigor mortis, thrust up through the waves of mud, and which—the first time he had seen them, at a distance—he had taken for branches of trees.

No, not a hand: a jawbone—eaten clean by rats. The teeth were still intact; it was possible to count the blackened fillings.

“Give us a kiss, love.
” One of the men with him had picked it up; he articulated the jaw so that it seemed to be the broken mouth that spoke.
“Just one kiss, love.”
The man laughed, then tossed the jawbone aside; he said it stank.

Acland opened his eyes and sat up.

“Where’s Constance?”

“Constance?” Gwen, her reminiscences interrupted, looked at him with surprise. “You remember—I told you, Acland. She’s gone to the opera with Steenie and Freddie. In Monty’s box—”

“Which opera was it?”

“Verdi, I think. Now, was it
Rigoletto
?”

“Would you mind if I went out?” Acland leaned across and kissed his mother. “I’d like to walk for a while….”

“Walk, Acland? In London?”

“Just for a while. I might go to the club.” Acland was already moving to the door. At the mention of his club, Gwen’s face brightened.

“Ah, so you do feel like seeing people, after all! I’m so glad, darling.” She rose and crossed to him and took his hand. “Did it help, darling—just to sit quietly and talk? I think it must have. There—you look better already.” She reached up to kiss him, then drew back, holding his face and looking into his eyes.

“Acland, you do know that I love you, darling? You do know how much I care for you?”

“I love you too. Very much,” Acland replied, in a stiff way. It was many years since he had said this to her, and at that, Gwen’s worries vanished.

As he left the room, Acland had a distinct picture in his mind. It was a picture of a small and anonymous hotel, next to Charing Cross station, which had been mentioned to him several times by fellow officers.

He had never visited the place, but in his mind’s eye he saw it clearly, down to the last details of the room he could hire there—by the hour, his friends said; no questions asked if a man were in uniform.

Acland was not in uniform, but even so, few questions were asked. He signed false names for himself and Jenna, they were given a key, and they went up to the room. It was as he had expected.

It had all been so easy, and so quick: a word with Jenna on the back stairs; a touch, a glance; a meeting in a mews a few streets away; a taxicab; signing a form, being given a key. So quick, so easy.

When he did all these things—which took so little time—Acland had felt quite certain on one point: His mother could not drive the image of the man and the jawbone from his mind, but a woman could. Constance would have banished it in a moment, he felt, if he could have been with her alone, but he had been alone with Constance only once since his leave began. Possibly she was avoiding him.

“You are keeping your promise?” She had said that to him, in a fierce way, catching him by the hand as they delayed, the last two people to leave breakfast.

“As well as I can,” he had replied. “I thought you might have forgotten it.”

“Don’t be a fool.” She had seemed angry; she dug her nails into his palm. “I shall never forget it. No matter what I do, or you do. Ever.”

Then she had gone. Tonight she was at the opera in Stern’s box, and Stern had, over the past four days, performed one discreet service for Acland. At Acland’s request he had introduced him to a solicitor, whose name was Solomons and who operated from dingy premises on the edge of the City.

The best there is, despite appearances,
Stern had said, and Acland assumed Stern to be a good judge. He could hardly consult his father’s solicitors in a matter such as this.

Acland had made a will; it was signed and witnessed. Not a very impressive will, he had thought, reading it over, but the best he could do, since his family money was tied up in trust until he was twenty-five—if he were ever to be twenty-five. His motorcar to Freddie; his clothes and other personal belongings to his brothers; his books to Constance, for she sometimes borrowed them, though he doubted she read them. All the money not in trust, some two thousand pounds, to Jenna, who might—one day—need it.

It would bring in an income, Solomons had said, of some one hundred and fifty pounds a year—hardly munificent, but adequate. In the pocket of his jacket, Acland now had a card with Solomons’ address; before they left this room—and they would not stay long—he must give it to Jenna, and explain.

The necessity of doing this vexed him; the room vexed him. Now that he was here Acland wondered how he could have imagined that it would do any good. He was using Jenna as he had used her three or four times before, visiting London from his training camp. He knew this to be a betrayal—of Jenna, and of himself. Her acceptance of the fact that he came to her for one purpose, and one only, made no difference.

I should leave here. I should go now,
Acland said to himself wearily. But his capacity for disgust—even self-disgust—was exhausted. Without speaking to Jenna, he began to undress.

He lay back on the sagging bed, on the cheap blankets, and pillowed his head on his arms. Jenna undressed more slowly, thinking perhaps that he watched her; but although Acland’s face was turned in her direction, he scarcely saw her. He was a prisoner of the war, he thought to himself. If the experience of the war could have been communicated to anyone, to Jenna now, he had a vague sense that he might begin to be free. It could not be communicated; he refused to communicate it. It would be like passing on to someone else—knowingly, and with intent—a disease.

“They’re sending me to the Amiens area next,” he said. “At least that’s the rumor.”

“Amiens?” Jenna lifted off her petticoat. “Where’s that?”

“Farther north than I was before. Just a place. It’s near the river Somme.”

Jenna did not reply. She removed the rest of her underclothing. Then, when she was naked, she sat beside him on the bed. She began to touch him. She did this now: She made love to him in a new bold way Acland rather disliked, although it was effective.

He averted his eyes. He thought of the brothels in France, the queues of men—officers in one queue, men in another. Inside, flimsy partitions, usually no more than curtains; the sighs and grunts of soldiers. The women had a sullen yet avid air; they wasted no time on preliminaries. They earned more money that way.

“No kissing,” one of the girls had said to him. She had unruly black hair, worn loose; a trick of the light made her resemble Constance. “No fucking,” she said. They seemed to be the only two English phrases she knew.

She had made a fist about his penis and jerked at it in the dark; she was efficient enough. It was over very quickly. It worked—as this was working now.

Jenna lowered her body onto his; she moved above him, rising, then sinking, her eyes closed, her expression rapt. Pleasure of a kind: Acland felt it narrow to the sharpest point of light. When it was over, Jenna lifted herself free; no words. There was a washstand in the room; she moved across to wash herself there. The water ran; Jenna soaped her thighs, then toweled them.

From some very distant place, the place from which he watched her, Acland said, “Will it be all right?”

“Of course it will be all right. I’m careful. I count the days.”

“I’d rather it wasn’t like this.” Acland sat up. “I’m sorry, Jenna.”

“Don’t be. We’re not children now. We take what we can, and we give what we can.”

She hesitated then, and Acland saw her face change. For a moment he feared she would take him in her arms—but perhaps she saw the instinctive recoil, for she drew back.

“I do still love you, you see,” she said in a careful voice. “I wish it would go away, but it won’t. I know you don’t love me. I know you won’t ever come back. And so—I’d rather this. It’s this—or nothing.”

She reached for her petticoat, then looked back. “It won’t go on much longer anyway, will it?”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps better not.”

“Was this the last time, then?” She put the question like a child, standing there, still naked, clutching her petticoat in front of her.

“I think so. Yes.”

“Ah, well. Here—let me help you with your shirt.”

No pleas and no recriminations. Acland felt diminished, but also relieved.

When they were both dressed, Jenna turned and looked back at the ugly room. Beyond the window a train whistled. Acland reached into his pocket and took out Solomons’ card; he gave it to her. He explained: If anything happened to him, she must go to Solomons at once; the solicitor would take care of everything.

“I never wanted money from you.” Jenna stared down at the piece of pasteboard.

“I know that, Jenna. Even so.” He made an awkward gesture of the hands. “I have nothing else to give.”

“I don’t believe that.” For the first time there was passion in her voice. “Not to me—but there are other people. I remember you, Acland. The way you used to be. When we were happy—”

“It was simpler then. I seem to have lost the gift.”

He smiled then. Jenna, who had grown used to his indifference, found she could not bear to see that smile.

“Take care.” She opened the door. “I’ll go now. It’s better if we leave separately.”

Separately indeed. Acland stayed a while, alone, in the shabby room, listening to the trains shunt back and forth. He was not cured, but then he had not really expected to be cured; the relief of sex was always temporary. He smoked a cigarette, then left.

He walked back through quiet streets, avoiding main roads, reaching Park Street just after eleven, the time the opera party should have returned.

They had not returned. They had telephoned, his mother said, and they were going on for supper at Maud’s.

Climbing into the first of the taxicabs Stern had summoned, Steenie—who had never seen
Rigoletto
before, but knew its more famous arias—hummed to himself.
“La donna è mobile”
—that melodious celebration of infidelity. Steenie liked this refrain. He sat on the jump seat; he began to whistle it.

On the backseat, somewhat crushed by the large figure of Freddie, sat Jane and Constance. Next to Steenie, on the other jump seat, sat his new friend Wexton. Wexton, a large and ungainly man of great benevolence, sat hunched up; his elbows protruded. He apologized for his knees, which he tried to telescope beneath the seat. They protruded too.

Wexton was wearing a borrowed opera cloak and a borrowed collapsible top hat. Its mechanism seemed to fascinate him. He flipped the hat up and down. He twirled it in his hands. Steenie watched him happily. He was in love with Wexton; he began to suspect Wexton might love him.

Opposite him, Freddie and Jane discussed the opera. Jane ventured an opinion on the tenor who had sung the part of the Duke, and the baritone who had sung the part of the hunchback father, the jester Rigoletto. Freddie, who usually avoided the opera, said even he had enjoyed it; he especially liked the last act, which was bloodthirsty.

“That bit when Rigoletto thinks it’s the Duke dead in the sack, and then discovers it’s his daughter. That was jolly good. Oh—and the curse—”

“La maledizione?”

“That’s it. It sounds better in Italian. That was terrific. It made my hair stand up on the back of my neck.”

“Oh, yes—and just after that, when the assassin comes to Rigoletto to offer his services. The scoring is for muted solo cello—and double bass, I think. There are these
pizzicato
strings. It’s—”

Jane stopped. Freddie was looking at her blankly. She smiled, then hid her smile with an odd defensive gesture of the hands.

“What is it?” Wexton leaned forward.

“Oh, it’s … effective. That’s all. Very effective.”

Wexton leaned back. He made no comment. He flipped his opera hat up and down. Steenie continued to whistle. Constance, who had stared out the window all this time, and who had not spoken since they left their box, straightened up.

“Do stop whistling, Steenie. It’s beginning to mangle my nerves. Anyway, we’re here. Maud’s taxi is just behind us. Come on.”

Maud’s post-opera suppers were always informal affairs. She and Stern led the way to her dining room; the younger guests followed. Servants were dispensed with. Maud waved her hand in a vague way toward a sideboard on which chafing dishes were laid out. Wexton, who was always hungry, eyed these. To Steenie’s amused delight, he refused caviar, which he said he never ate, then consumed three helpings of scrambled eggs.

Maud, who knew that at these gatherings it was usually Jane who was left out, concentrated her attentions there. She asked Jane about her work at Guy’s Hospital, not that it greatly interested her—Maud found hospitals depressing—but because she knew it was the best way to break down Jane’s barriers of shyness. Like the accomplished hostess she was, she contrived to listen to Jane with animation and encouragement while never losing sight of her other guests.

She noticed, therefore, the way in which Steenie was looking at this young American, Wexton, and decided it would be better not to mention it to Gwen. She watched Freddie bumble about from group to group in a lost way. She watched her lover, Stern, who in his urbane manner was making an attempt to converse with an unresponsive Constance.

Stern stood before the fire, leaning against the chimneypiece. He was wearing evening dress; Maud, gazing at him fondly, thought how handsome, how distinguished he looked. His stillness, his capacity for concentration—these things she loved. Now, although Maud knew Constance’s conversation was unlikely to be of great interest to him, he listened with every appearance of close attention, his sleek and tawny head bent toward the tiny figure at his side. Constance toyed with scrambled eggs. Stern put a series of polite questions to which Constance replied in a sullen way, without animation. Then something Stern said seemed to catch her attention. She put down her plate and began to speak more rapidly. Maud, curious, left Jane to Freddie and approached.