Madame Sousatzka (24 page)

George looked at her gleefully, as if she answered a requirement in his ‘damp clause'. ‘Make another note of those holes, Frank,' he said.

Suddenly they heard a crash from the other side of the room. Mr Holmes, whom at his own request everybody had ignored, felt the need to stand by Jenny. He dropped the bookshelves he was still fixing on to the mantelpiece, and waving his hammer in his hand he said with authority, ‘If Miss Boxhall states that there are no mice, I see absolutely no reason on earth to disbelieve her.' Frank and George gaped at him. It was his accent that disturbed them; it seemed in no way connected with the hammer in his hand.

‘What are the holes there for, then?' said George, who was the first to recover.

‘For air,' said Mr Holmes, waving his hammer theatrically.

‘Make a note of that, Frank,' said George. ‘Twenty-five holes, for ventilation.'

‘I think we go downstairs,' said Madame Sousatzka. She
was smiling to herself. The whole examination suddenly appeared to her to be ridiculous. If they had found so much fault with Jenny's room, which she considered to be the best in the house, what would they find when they eventually made the basement? She followed them down to the half-landing.

‘Let's see the plan,' George said. Frank drew another chart out of his case and spread it open against the wall.

‘Let's see, now,' said George, pointing to a square, ‘we're here, at this point, aren't we?' Madame Sousatzka leaned over to confirm it.

‘That's right,' she said triumphantly. ‘We're here.' It was the first time she'd seen the plan of a house, and it meant nothing to her, but she saw no point in disagreeing with the examiners.

‘Well then,' said George. He was already dribbling in anticipation of another victory. ‘If we're here, and it's here on the map,' he said, screwing his finger into a little black square, ‘if we're here,' he repeated, ‘what, Madam, has happened to the lavatory? Now you can't deny it, can you?' he said, before Madame Sousatzka could offer an explanation. ‘It's here, in black and white, a lavatory. Now where's it gone?' He made Madame Sousatzka feel as if she'd stolen the lavatory and hidden it under her pillow. She remembered that years ago Cordle had wanted to extend his room to store his charts, and he'd had the lavatory taken away and the wall pulled down. ‘It's gone,' Madame Sousatzka said simply.

‘You admit it was here?' said George. Frank had taken out his scoreboard without waiting for George's instructions.

‘Oh yes,' said Madame Sousatzka, ‘I remember it very well. But you see, very simple, we didn't want it, and Mr Cordle, he lives in that room,' she pointed down the stairs, ‘he want bigger space. So we pull down the wall and we take away the lavatory. A very good man did it. Very expensive. But Mr Cordle,' she smiled, ‘he is professional man. He need the space.'

‘It's got to go back,' said George with finality. ‘In 1860,
when this house was built, there was a lavatory on this very space where we're standing.' Madame Sousatzka moved away from them. ‘It's got to go back. People've got no right to take things away. What people think they can get away with with these leaseholds, is astonishing. It'll have to go back.' George had obviously remarried Cameron & Hodge. Meanwhile, Frank was scribbling frantically in his notebook, ticking off on his chart, like a zealous schoolmaster marking the work of a genius.

George walked defiantly down the stairs. He was getting belligerent. Mr Holmes's accent had set him off. Always in the course of a survey George would switch sides, so that by the time a job was completed he was ready to worship at the shrine of Cameron & Hodge, gloating over evictions, hobnobbing with the bailiffs, and ordering the replacement of a hundred useless lavatories, sheds and entrances, according to the rule of the book, ‘everything shall be left as found'. He banged on Cordle's door with his fist. ‘Shifting lavatories,' he muttered. ‘What next?'

There was no answer. George turned to look at Madame Sousatzka, but she didn't see him. She was far away; she was thinking of the dressing-room adjoining her studio, which years ago she'd converted into a bathroom. Marcus used to love that bathroom because of the shower. At the thought of Marcus the expiration of the lease became meaningless. She suddenly hated these men. She didn't care what they said about her house. She didn't care about the house any more. She cared for Jenny, and Cordle, and Uncle, and the music Marcus had made from her and the ulcerous hole in her heart.

‘There is no need to bang like a hooligan,' Madame Sousatzka said quietly. ‘Perhaps he is out, Mr Cordle. You will see the room. I will take you. You have not come here to examine the people, remember. You have to make the report, the report of the house. I am not a criminal. If the house is bad, it is because I have not money. That is not a crime.' She moved towards them to open Cordle's door, and George stood aside quietly. He looked at Frank, who noncommittally shrugged his shoulders.

There was no one in Cordle's room, and Madame Sousatzka was convinced he was hiding somewhere. She opened his cupboard and his one suit, its hanger wedged in the door, swung round in her face. She clutched the dangling sleeve, as if Cordle were inside it. There was no sign of his white jacket. He must have it on. He must be in the house somewhere. He never went out in the street with his white jacket. She began to worry about him. She needed him, with these men and this examination. ‘Cordle,' she whispered into the closet, as if he were a pet kitten that would emerge only at a familiar bidding.

‘It's all right, Madam,' George said, friendly again. ‘We won't need Mr Cordle. Have to take down some of these charts, though,' he said, ‘with your permission.'

‘I will take them,' said Madame Sousatzka. She didn't want strangers to handle Cordle's work.

‘As you wish,' George said, and they stood aside and watched Madame Sousatzka as she carefully lifted the charts from the wall.

‘Is he a doctor, or something?' Frank wanted to be friendly, too.

‘Yes,' said Madame Sousatzka. She was not prepared to go into the matter and she went on rolling up the charts. When the walls were stripped she stood in the corner, holding the charts to her. She watched the men as they examined the room. George measured, prodded and peeled, while Frank scribbled and ticked. The men were silent. George no longer expressed any enthusiasm over his discoveries. In fact, he seemed suddenly bored by the whole business.

‘That's it,' he said after a short while, ‘let me help you put the charts back.'

Madame Sousatzka sensed his change of heart and she allowed him to help her. When it was finished, she opened the door for them to leave first; she looked round the naked room, still aware of Cordle's presence. ‘Thank you, Cordle,' she whispered, ‘We're going now.'

As they reached the first landing, the ‘phone rang. When a ‘phone rings in a lonely house, you don't answer it automatically. Like Madame Sousatzka, you listen a while
to its ringing. She would wonder who it was. She would think of half a dozen unexciting people and hope it wasn't one of them. She would give her ear wholly to the sound of the bell, and enjoy the concrete knowledge that somebody wanted her. She would approach the ‘phone and stretch out her hand, testing the caller's patience, savouring the rhythmic insistence of the caller. Once she had over-tested, and the ringing had stopped as her hand touched the receiver. She was furious at herself for missing the call and she spent weeks of vain enquiry to find out who it had been. Since that time, she would pick up the ‘phone promptly, to acknowledge her presence, but she would wait a few minutes before saying ‘Hullo', in order to prolong her excitement. Now, with George and Frank immediately behind her, she couldn't play her private game. As she lifted the receiver, she half hoped it would be the wrong number. It was a pity to waste a telephone call under such conditions. ‘Hullo,' she drawled, bored as a habit-worn telephonist.

‘Madame Sousatzka?' a small voice both questioned and answered at the other end.

Madame Sousatzka caught hold of the coin-box that held the money. ‘Marcus!' she gasped. Frank and George looked at her and saw her stagger slightly, her face a pale yellow. George stopped forward to hold her.

‘Is there anything wrong, Madam?'

‘Go away,' Madame Sousatzka screamed, ‘I must be by myself.' The men turned to walk down the stairs, staring behind them. ‘No, my darrlink,' Madame Sousatzka was saying, ‘Not you, my darrlink, I was talking to someone else. Is all right with you, Marcus?' The colour had returned to her face, the yellow rinsed out with her tears. ‘Yes, of course,' she said. ‘Tonight. Eight o'clock. I wait for you. Is all right everything now,' she said, almost to herself. ‘I wait for you, Marcus. Is all right.' She heard Marcus put the ‘phone down, and she stared at the receiver in her hand. ‘Is all right,' she said, laughing to herself. ‘Is all right, Jenny,' she shouted in the direction of the top storey. ‘Is all right, Cordle,' she ran towards his room, relaying the good news through the door. As she came downstairs and passed
the telephone she picked up the hanging receiver and replaced it violently, as if she wanted to break all communication. She didn't need it any more. Everything was all right again. She ran past the men in the hall and leaned over the basement staircase. ‘Is all right, Uncle,' she yelled, ‘is all right.'

It did not strike her as odd, that none of the tenants had answered her. It didn't matter. She came towards Frank and George, who couldn't fathom the change in her manner. She looked at them both with a feeling of great love. ‘Is all right now,' she said gently. ‘Is everything all right with Madame Sousatzka. Come, I show you my room. My piano, my life,' she said, opening the door. ‘You go about your business,' she said, ‘I go about mine. I have so much to do. I have a lesson. An important lesson. A great pianist. I must get everything ready.'

She started to sing as she opened the large kidney lid of the piano, as if to air it after lack of use. She removed the velvet band that covered the keys. She busied herself with the music, selecting pieces from the various piles. She opened a book of studies and placed it on the stand, gently turning up the corners to facilitate the turn-over. She began to giggle with excitement. With her two hands she played a scale the length of the keyboard, chromatically, so that every note would be run in. She followed this with a number of arpeggios and chords, testing the keyboard for varying tones, warming it up, as one cranks a car engine on a frosty morning.

Frank and George, their business forgotten, stared at her, bewildered. They watched her as she sat at the piano, twirling the stool higher and higher.

‘Oh, I forget so soon,' she said. ‘Please, Mister,' she said, going over to Frank who was the shorter of the two, ‘would you please sit on the stool and make so is the right height? You are like my Marcus. I mean only in the height you are like him.' Frank let himself be led to the stool, and as he sat down he started to adjust the seat. ‘Is comfortable?' Madame Sousatzka asked him when he'd stopped twiddling.

‘It's all right,' he said. ‘I like a seat with a back, myself.'

‘Not for the playing,' Madame Sousatzka laughed. ‘Is right for the playing? You can reach the piano?' Frank stretched out his arms and rested his unkempt long-nailed hands on the keys. Madame Sousatzka looked at them, horrified. ‘Is all right,' she said quickly, taking his hands away. She stared at the range of notes his hands had covered and she desperately wanted to wipe them clean. She felt Frank was like a tramp who, just for kicks, had taken a nap on a virgin bridal bed.

‘Thank you,' she managed to say, ‘now all is ready.'

‘Give us a tune, Madam,' said George, ‘while we get on with the job.'

Madame Sousatzka closed the lid of the piano. ‘Not now,' she said. ‘Everything is ready. Must not disturb.'

‘Pity,' said George, disappointed. ‘I like a drop of music myself.'

‘Will it be very long? The house business, I mean,' Madame Sousatzka was getting impatient. It was already three o'clock and she wanted to savour the waiting time alone.

‘About an hour, I should say,' said George. ‘Come on, Frank, get cracking. I'm going to need that plan again.'

Frank pulled it out of his brief-case and spread it over a chair.

‘Now let's see,' said George, ‘where are we?'

Frank pointed with his pencil. ‘We're here,' he said gaily. His services as a stand-in had given him confidence. ‘Entrance floor. Front room.'

‘So this door should lead to the dressing-room,' said George, his hand on the door knob.

‘Correct,' said Frank, who had suddenly assumed seniority. ‘Absolutely correct.' He went over and opened the door with confidence, only to be faced with a rusty old-fashioned geyser and the beginnings of an off-white bath. He shut the door hastily behind him, thinking that he had mispointed the place on the map. But George was a thorough man. He wanted to check on everything.

‘Hullo, hullo, hullo,' he said, opening the door and greeting the geyser in triplicate. ‘What have we here? A bathroom. How nice.' He was dating Cameron & Hodge
again. ‘No sign of a bathroom on
my
map, Madam. This
is
132 Vauxhall Mansions, isn't it?' he asked disdainfully.

‘Yes, it's a bathroom all right,' said Madame Sousatzka. She could think of nothing else except Marcus's promised visit. ‘Yes, I wanted a bathroom, so I built the bathroom. Very good man. Very expensive. But I understand. I take it away, yes?' George was annoyed to have the wind taken out of his sails so quickly. ‘I take it away,' Madame Sousatzka went on. ‘I take away the bathroom on the ground, I put back the lavatory on Cordle's floor. I mend all the pipes. I take away all the damp. I mend the roof. I kill worms in the wood. I do everything. You send me the catalogue. I do it.' She wanted them very much to go away.