Madame Sousatzka (4 page)

She shut her eyes on the bus as it crossed the alien streets of the West End. She knew by the changing accents around her when it had crossed the borders into North London. When she walked towards her street, it did not occur to her to worry whether her house was still there, or even if it were on fire. Her thoughts were in Vauxhall Mansions, in the little square bedroom; the shoes, with their still-tied shoelaces under the bed and the brown paper from the two parcels on the floor.

But Mrs Crominski was on a false scent. What was to have been Marcus's bedroom, had suddenly during the course of the week been switched to a store-room for one of Madame Sousatzka's tenants. Marcus was to sleep in the basement in the Countess's apartment, where a spare ante-room adjoined her own.

The Countess had been the first of Madame Sousatzka's tenants. She was known to all acquaintances as the dirty
Countess and was never in the slightest bit offended. She felt the name was an individual one and she would answer to no other. But among her intimates she was known as Uncle. She had been Uncle from the beginning when she had moved into Madame Sousatzka's house. She had voluntarily opted for the basement. She felt far more at home on a lower level, hemmed in by gratings on the window that she never wanted removed. She had told Madame Sousatzka that she was a Countess, and what's more, a Countess in her own right. And in case Madame Sousatzka didn't fully appreciate her status, she hastened to explain that she had inherited the title directly from her father, since she was an only child, and in order to make clear her direct descendency, she desired to be known by the name of Uncle Countess, which title, she felt, would embrace both the quality and the rank of her status. Over the years, she had become simply ‘Uncle'.

She had not cleaned or tidied her room since she had moved into the house years ago. To do anything physical was a great effort for the Countess. She must have been the laziest person on earth. She would sit all day in her rocking-chair by an old and noisy gas-fire. Within leg's reach was a bed, a gas-ring, a few cooking utensils, and a shelf of foodstuffs. The bare necessities of life all huddled within arm's length, so that the Countess had only to steer her rocking-chair to get on with the business of living. The nearest lavatory to her room was in the garden outside, a mere fifty yards' distance. The Countess looked upon these unavoidable journeys as marathons, and she would sink back into her rocking-chair after these sorties, breathless and exhausted, and furious at the amount of energy she had expended. In all, the dirty Countess was a ‘sitter'. She would sit for days looking at a wall. Then her gaze would concentrate on a patch of the wallpaper pattern. She would stare at the small black and white squares so intently, that sometimes she could see only black, or at other times, by way of a change, only white. Wisdom can come from looking at a wall, she would tell Madame Sousatzka.

She was an endless smoker. She had a consignment of cigarettes and newspapers – she was a glutton for newspapers – delivered
every morning outside her door. And she would make her journeys to the garden coincide with their collection. There were cigarette ends and ash all over the floor. In fact, the Countess's only exercise was flicking her ash into an ash-tray by the side of her rocking-chair, and very often she missed because she wouldn't stretch that far.

By her side, and reaching almost to the arm of her chair, was a pile of out-of-date newspapers, neatly folded, fresh and crisp as on a stall. For in fact, although they were months old, they had never been opened. Only the back page was of any interest to the Countess because of the crossword. She did as many crosswords as she smoked cigarettes, and one was an accompaniment to the other. On her lap lay the current evening paper, and of this, she only read one page. Politics and gossip could not assuage the Countess's conscience. For she had a conscience. She was acutely aware of the sterility of her existence. The line about conserving her energy kidded no one, least of all the Countess. To read the column headed
‘Situations Vacant'
was her daily confessional. It was the last of her good intentions, and even this she dispensed with as quickly as possible. She had a special routine for dealing with the column. She would run her finger down the initial heavy type of each classification.
Assistant
anything didn't interest her. Somehow she couldn't see herself in a subordinate position. Neither could she imagine herself as
Capstan Setter
, and though she assumed she would make a very good
Car Greaser
, she didn't quite see why she had to. A dozen or so
Experienced
followed. This was decidedly not one of the Countess's qualifications, and in anticipation of what she knew by long habit was to follow, she slowed her finger till it rested hopefully on
Intelligent
. This she knew she was. Of that there was no question. Gingerly she lifted her hand to see the rest of the advertisement, only to find that the other qualifications needed were secretarial. The Countess had always considered the two terms antithetical. It was a principle with her. There were only a few ‘Intelligent' advertisements, and all too soon her finger caressed the inevitable list of
Jig and Tool
. Jig and Tool bearers were always in demand, and although she had not the slightest
notion of what they were, she felt she wasn't one of them.
Messengers
and
Male Cleaners
left her cold. With
Models
she declared herself not guilty, likewise to
Sheet Metal
workers. What a demand there always was for
Time and Motion
experts. She never ceased to wonder what they were, and whether perhaps she was one of them. But the effort to find out was too much for her, so that even though through her negligence they had lost the greatest Time and Motion expert of all time, she didn't consider it worth the effort.
Shorthand Typists
and
Secretaries
occupied almost one and a half columns of close type. She skipped these by contemptuously. Her next stop was
Woman
. This qualification was basic, and there was no doubt in the Countess's mind that she had it, but she never seemed to fit into the packers or cleaners that followed.
Woman
she knew from long practice was her last chance for they were always followed by
Young
, which the Countess took as a personal affront, and she would stuff the paper into an imaginary waste-basket at her side.

The Countess had welcomed Madame Sousatzka's suggestion of having Marcus in her apartment, for her loneliness was sometimes unbearable. She had decided to teach him to play draughts if he didn't already know how. It was an effortless game and obviated the necessity for conversation.

After the lesson, Madame Sousatzka gave Marcus tea and took him down to the basement. ‘Is she a real Countess, Madame Sousatzka?' Marcus asked.

‘In Sousatzka house, only genuine article,' Madame Sousatzka said.

She knocked on the Countess's door and they went in without waiting for an answer. ‘Uncle,' Madame Sousatzka said, ‘here is Marcus.'

Marcus was astonished at Madame Sousatzka's mode of address. He himself had been prepared to bow and call the Countess, your ladyship. But when he saw her untidy room, and then the Countess herself, with her hair unkempt, and vast, torn slippers on her feet, he began to be less convinced of her status. He smiled at her and she pointed at the draughts board at her feet. He picked it up,
together with the pieces, and assembled a game on a small table near the fire. He moved the table over to her chair.

‘Black?' he asked.

The dirty Countess shook her head. Marcus turned the board round so that the white was on her side. He had cottoned on to her lethargy very quickly. They started to play and a whole game had been finished before Marcus realized that Madame Sousatzka had left the room and not a single word had passed between them. They started another game, Marcus asking whatever questions were necessary and taking a nod or a shake in answer. He fully accepted the fact that his relationship with Uncle was to be a wordless one, and he had the feeling that they would get on very well together. He was excited at the thought of telling his mother all about the real Countess in Madame Sousatzka's house. But he felt his mother would disapprove of her. Perhaps after all it would be better if he kept the Countess to himself.

When Madame Sousatzka came to fetch him to supper, the Countess had fallen asleep, her hand still clutching the last black king she had taken from Marcus.

Supper was in Madame Sousatzka's kitchen and her other two tenants were already seated. ‘This is Marcus,' she said, ‘Marcus Crominski. Remember the name, Cordle,' she said to a white-coated gentleman on one side of the table. ‘Is a very good name for very good pianist.'

Mr Cordle stood up and stretched out a bony hand. Marcus took it and felt its gentle pressure. ‘I shall be seeing you,' Mr Cordle said. In any other setting, Marcus would have been astonished at such a greeting, but the, eccentricity of Madame Sousatzka and Uncle had already conditioned him to such oddities. ‘Why?' he asked.

‘I am an osteopath,' Mr Cordle said. Marcus didn't know what the word meant, but he was too shy to ask. He hoped he would remember it so that he could ask his mother. Or better, look it up in his dictionary in case it was something his mother disapproved of.

‘And Jenny,' Madame Sousatzka was saying. Jenny didn't get up. She stretched out her left hand and took Marcus's in her own. She looked carefully at his palm.
‘You're right, Sousatzka,' she said. ‘In his hand it's a famous name.' She gave Marcus a broad smile and Marcus saw how young and pretty she was. ‘I'll tell Momma about Jenny and Mr Cordle,' he thought, but immediately decided against it. The number of facts he was piling up to conceal from his mother excited him but at the same time made him feel guilty. He knew that he could cry at will, simply by thinking of her lisle-stockinged feet. He hoped he could keep the thought out of his mind at least until the meal was over and he was in bed. Then he would cry and feel better. And tomorrow when they went home from Madame Sousatzka's, even if he told her nothing about Mr Cordle or Uncle or Jenny, he would hold her hand.

Madame Sousatzka placed him at the head of the table and she herself sat at the other end. There was a dish of cold chicken on the table and a bowl of tinned pears, which Marcus took to be for dessert. He was astonished to see Madame Sousatzka, Cordle and Jenny help themselves to both at the same time. When the dishes were passed to him he did likewise, though he was sure he would hate the combination. But he had the feeling that all these people, especially if they lived with Madame Sousatzka, were the right people, doing the right things and thinking the right thoughts. As he looked at the white meat on his plate and the pear juice seeping from its weave, he felt he was one of them. But only partly. He felt, too, an unhappy sense of betrayal of Stamford Hill. He wondered what his mother … and with the sudden thought of his mother, even without the lisle stockings, he knew he was going to cry. He ate a mouthful of food quickly, hoping to swallow the lump in his throat along with it. Jenny noticed his discomfort.

‘Marcus,' she said, smiling at him, ‘next Friday after your lesson, you must come and have tea in my room. D'you like crumpets?'

For Marcus the word was nearer home, miles and miles away from the concept of chicken and pears. His mother bought him crumpets every Monday. He suddenly loved Jenny. Yes, he decided, without any doubt, he could tell his mother about her.

He helped Jenny with the washing-up after supper, and when he went to bed, both Jenny and Madame Sousatzka kissed him. Cordle parted from him with the same words with which he had greeted him. ‘I'll be seeing you,' and to his dismay Marcus realized that he had forgotten the word Cordle said he was.

He got into his bed, his mind whirling with thoughts about the Sousatzka establishment. Automatically he turned over his pillow, and then he realized that he was a long way from home. He suddenly remembered the second parcel his mother had given him. He reached under his bed and brought out three clean raw carrots. They make you see in the dark, or they make your hair grow curly. Or was that cabbage? Vegetables, vegetables, vegetables. He munched at one slowly, keeping his hand pressed hard on his hair to stop it from curling. He wondered vaguely how to dispose of the other two carrots. He would tell his mother that she'd been right. He'd enjoyed them. He'd been grateful for them. More lies. One day, when he was older, and loved her with less pain, he would begin to tell her the truth.

And so every Friday night and Saturday morning, Marcus lived with the Sousatzka Method. He grew less and less interested in his school. Among his school friends and in class, he felt himself slightly superior. After all, he had eaten pears and chicken, both at the same time; he felt himself almost betrothed to Jenny, with whom he had tea every Friday; he knew a man in a white coat who was something special, and above all, he spent his week-ends with a real Countess. The word Cordle had used still escaped him, and it was not until about six months after first meeting him that its meaning became clear.

Of late, his mother had been nagging him to hold himself erect. ‘A cripple you will grow up to be,' she warned him. ‘Is the way you practise. When Mr Lawrence was your teacher, with a straight back you played. Also you gave concerts, it's true. But concerts. And now already six months with Madame Sousatzka, and a hump he has. And does she mention a concert? Never.'

‘Madame Sousatzka's a much better teacher than Mr Lawrence,' Marcus defended her. ‘Madame Sousatzka teaches more than just the piano. I've learnt more with Madame Sousatzka in six months than I ever learnt with Mr Lawrence. If anyone can make me a pianist, it's Madame Sousatzka.'

‘Madame Sousatzka this, Madame Sousatzka that. Like she's God you talk about her. And tell me, since she's so clever, the almighty Madame Sousatzka, tell me please, what great names have learnt with her? Who is the famous pupil of the great Madame Sousatzka? Who? I ask you. For twelve years she is teaching the piano. What happened to all the pupils? They go afterwards to someone else perhaps? Someone better, perhaps? All right, so you learnt already many pieces with her, concertos and so on. But for concertos
you need orchestra. You need concerts. You need audience. I'm not satisfied. I'm not satisfied at all,' she concluded. ‘Next Friday, I'll have a talk with Madame Sousatzka. About two things I want to know. One is the hump, the other is the concerts.'