That Book Your Mad Ancestor Wrote (34 page)

Among the more conventional unconventional figures there was the sphinx, her symbol for herself, whose red hair in the image became red waves in which tiny figures of men and women were drowning; and the basilisk, the king of snakes, a feathered serpent with the
sharp, devilish face of a man whose leering grin implied a nature more like Vice than Royalty. These images dragged him out of the abstractions with which he had been dallying and threw him back into the memory of love that had got out of hand.

How was he to describe it to himself now? His inner descriptions had changed with the years, as time fiddled with the stuff of the past. Subsequent loves
had altered the dreamish memory; fashions in thought and discoveries in science had adjusted and recast it. He felt that only a few parts of the whole edifice had held up under the strain.

It had been more than thirty years, during which he had never once chanced across, nor been able to locate
– on the admittedly few occasions when he had actively looked – a single one of her works, even though her output, both commercial and private, had been prolific. The appearance of this one book was therefore rather too neat a reprise of the way their affair had begun – with one and only one of her etchings appearing in his world and serving as a maddening clue through which he was to find her.

T
wo coincidences, then. And so what, one might say. Yet there it was, as unexpected as the book: the recrudescence, gathering momentum after the vaguest of beginnings, of interest in playing the tracking game. He was ready to feel disgusted at himself for imagining that the game might have stakes – but he had to wait for the disgust to come, and when it did, it was so old and weak and uncertain of its own validity that it made him sigh through his teeth.

He could hardly forget her theory that each person, in an exaggeration of subjective experience, existed in his or her own world, and that these worlds could join and part like dancers in a ballroom. According to this notion, her world and his had
united, then parted decisively. Yet he wondered whether even she could have come up with an explanation for the seeming disappearance of all her marks from the world that remained around him.

As he studied the images, he found mismatches between such of their content as his memory had retained and
that which was before him now. The sphinx, for instance; he was sure she had been playing with a glass fishing float – a private allusion to their jungle picnic when they had found the float in the canal.

Conceivably she had made more than one version of some of the plates. More likely
, his memory was fuddled, by the strong drugs he had enjoyed all his life as well as by the usual accumulation of lies and fantasies.

His own logic argued that
, to an actor, lies and fantasies were valid currency.

Like hell money for the dead.

Chimeras all the way down, was it?

A
thin smile creased his thin face. Here might be amusement, at least – if only, eventually, it meant that he would laugh at himself.

Having thought of how he could play with the book, he rose, wondering if he would be lucky this time; he was,
and without uncomfortable interruption he walked to the desk, obtained paper and pencil from the obliging Miss Airlie, and returned to absorb himself in engagement with a pretence: namely, that the book might contain a message.

He began at the first page again, reviewing each image and the descriptions on the
facing pages, which to the best of his recall had been produced by a copywriter of poetic bent. It was suitably delirious stuff. Any secret messages passed between text and image should be accidental – he would have to throw a net and see what it caught.

He studied the sphinx and the basilisk first, the directions in which eyes
gazed and limbs and tails pointed, and drew imaginary lines (another sheet of paper serving as a ruler) from any seeming indicators to the text. When this yielded nothing, his hunting nature felt warmed up and ready to work through the whole book.

He went through the same
procedure with each picture, and when, as he had expected, no individual image revealed a message, he drew up a table for indicated words, with the columns marked Eyes, Hands, Tails, and so on, and the rows numbered for the plates, of which there were forty-three, one for each letter of the alphabet.

Altogether this took two hours, and after poring over permutations of words for another hour and coming up empty, he decided some way of reducing their number was needed.

He tried using her name as a key, taking words from the entries for those letters; he then tried his own name, both their names together, the name of the street she had lived on, and words that had been important to her: Escape, Transformation, Theurgy, Power, Art of course, and a few synonyms and variations in lexical and grammatical category; he resorted to trying it with Love. He tried words in his own language, and the name of his sword. He tried Death, and Rebirth, and Mystery, and Where Are You, and Where Am I, and Hello.

All to nothing gained.

He did not allow himself to sigh or appear disturbed. That would be distasteful. Certain shows of emotion might be forgiven an old and ill man, but not to be included among those, under any circumstances, the grumblings of a player who was getting nowhere in a game!

He pursed his lips, visualising a long wait on a rooftop with a rifle; the patience of a donkey essential to the job.

Trying a more properly ludic approach, he fashioned keys out of bedroom talk, vulgarities, cant and slang, pornographic clichés, curses and insults. None of these opened a door.

He was aware of the afternoon ticking on, the light deserting the overhead glass
– he had turned the desk lamp on already – other readers leaving one by one, until he was alone.

Now Miss
Airlie was going to come and tell him to get out. Out of the corner of his eye he watched her: a Girl Guide’s forthright walk, but thin wrists.

Chimeras all the…

‘Excuse me, Mr Casmir. I’m afraid we close at seven-thirty, so I shall have to ask you to return the book in a few minutes.’

He felt a slithering vampiric lust for her. Unconnected to his personal tastes, it was certainly the hunger of age for youth, questing for what was most alive in its vicinity. He was inclined to view it with celebration
.

‘
Of course,’ he said smoothly, moving his arm to cover the notes he had been writing, since they contained words that ‘Mr Casmir’, whose scent of rakishness was a mere dab on a handkerchief, would not wish to show a young woman.

The librarian went back to her post at the desk, and he folded his failed attempts and put them away in a pocket. Then he sat with his thoughts for five minutes; he stood up, enduring a brief nasty jab; and, approaching the desk, after handing back the gloves, but not yet the book, and saying a few words in its praise, asked the question on his mind
:

‘
How much, Miss Airlie, would you say this volume is worth?’

‘
Oh, quite a bit, I should think. It’s in first-rate condition and very rare. Probably a couple of thousand florins.’

It was then necessary to ask,
‘And do you know whether one might be able to negotiate its purchase?’ – so that she laughed and shook her head and supplied him with the answer that was most probable. ‘I’m afraid not. The library doesn’t sell to private buyers.’

With the book
in one arm, he began removing his glasses, while he said in an interested tone, ‘And you, Miss Airlie – do you subscribe to such democratic ideals?’

She frowned
– having a nature which, when it suspected fault, liked to give a warning. ‘What a question, Mr Casmir. Yes, I do; of course I do. You don’t?’

He was blithe.
‘You’re a young democrat; I’m an old hypocrite. One has principles – but what a trouble to keep constant company with them. One should visit principles as if they were great aunts; with all due deference, but not too often. Don’t you think?’ As he made this speech he watched the meaning behind her frown change from disapproval to the impression that he was gaga.

She answered in a firm voice
– slightly raised, since they were the only people in the library now, ‘I certainly don’t think so. I’m afraid you must have fatigued yourself, Mr Casmir. Home and a bit of rest for you! Now, may I have the book?’

He gave his head a little shake and let his features fall
in the shape of regret – a father denying something to a favourite child. ‘How nice you’re being. But no, I’m afraid – I have to take it.’

‘
Have to?’

‘
Wrong words,’ he acknowledged, while the hand that held his glasses took out their case and opened it, without the aid of the other, which was still holding the book; however, getting the glasses into the case one-handed apparently proved too difficult, and he dropped both on the floor. He tsk’ed as he bent down. When he straightened, the glasses were out of sight and he was holding a gun.

It was not a gentleman
’s gun – at least, not a modern gentleman’s. It was heavy and black and had a well-used, well-oiled look.

‘
I should have said, I can’t help taking this book,’ was how he corrected himself.

‘
I am disappointed, Mr Casmir. I had not thought you were a thief.’ Full credit to her nerve, she raised her hands calmly and did not gasp or tremble or do anything else to suggest that she was made of other than steel, for which he could have kissed her – it was quite right that she should be the cool and unmoved one.

‘
Theft is not a habit of mine,’ he replied, with a smile brightening his eyes – ‘only an occasional indulgence.’

‘
Was it a whim?’

‘
Very much so.’ Still telling the truth, he said, ‘I’m sorry that I shall not be able to return. But perhaps it’s time to do something else with my Saturday afternoons.’

She shrugged.
‘I don’t think you would shoot me, Mr Casmir. But if you are a man who acts on whim, perhaps I shouldn’t try my luck.’ Now she was looking embarrassed for him
. Well,
he thought
, you deserve it.

‘
Good thinking. My trigger finger has been known to slip, and I’m getting clumsier with age. I expect you have an alarm under that counter.’

After a moment
’s delay she nodded.

‘
Pull the wire out.’

She pulled it out.

‘I am angry,’ she said. ‘I want you to know that. Extremely angry.’

‘
I should think so.’ His left hand was working to tuck the book away in his coat, under the strap of the shoulder holster to which he then returned the gun.

He walked out arranging his muffler, passing the doorman in the foyer, who was reading a newspaper and barely glanced up. He retrieved his hat from the cloakroom, where he adjusted the strap to hold the book more comfortably, and tipped the smiling doorman on his way out.

A cool, agreeable evening received him outside. The smog was brightly lit. Coquettes were beginning to make their appearance, in wonderfully short skirts. The man of sixty felt the slither again, this time with more pep in it. Trolley-cars rattled down the street – charming! – with the windows of a wunderkammer, or indeed specimen slides parading nature’s captive secrets… he stepped out and hailed a cab, climbed in gingerly – he hoped the girl’s nose wasn’t too out of joint – really, how soft was he getting? – the book was perhaps just what he needed, it would keep him occupied if not out of trouble–

Inhaling and coughing, having in the midst of his thoughts lit a cigarette, against orders (
‘because,’ the doctor had said, ‘while the prohibition is pointless now, you’ll enjoy defying it’), he felt buoyant. He farewelled ‘Mr Casmir’, thanking him for his company, telling him this was a good time to be going separate ways.

His vanity wished to remember better crimes
. To hell with vanity. Alighting from the cab at an obscure square, he stood and fiddled with his clothing until the cab was off, then started walking, returning soon enough to a busy street, and hailed another cab. His heart beat against the book. He gazed at lighted windows, house after house, wondered what his mistress had done about dinner, and whether he would keep it down, and would his prick stand up, or would it be another night beginning and ending in the Bois de Gamahuche?