The Revolt of Aphrodite (12 page)

I did not go back to Naos until I was summoned, a week or two later; nor, by some curious chemistry of the unconscious, did I mention anything at all about Sipple, or about my visit to his rooms. Neither did Hippolyta. Nor, most perplexing of all, could I find any reference to the matter in the newspapers which I so diligently perused in the Reading Rooms of the local library. Not a word, not a breath. It was to be presumed then that the whole thing had been a bad dream? Hippolyta was alone in the rambling house, lying almost waist-deep in newsprint, her cheeks pink, her voice crackling at the edges with triumph. She embraced me with a curious reverential, a devotional tenderness—the precise way that the Orthodox peasants salute an ikon. “Graphos” she cried, the tears rose to her blackbird’s eye. “O do look. Have you read it?” I had not. The press was
plastered
with it. “It is the greatest speech he has ever made—all Athens is thrilled. He has found himself again.”

These esoteric matters concerning the vicissitudes of Athenian political life were of no concern to me; or so it then seemed. “But you don’t understand. His party is reformed at a single blow. He is certain now to carry the autumn election and that will save the day.”

“For whom? For what?”

“For us all, silly.”

She poured me a drink with shaking hand, wading through the bundles of newsprint with their vivid many-coloured letterpress, all bannering the name of Graphos, all carrying cartoons of him,
photographs
of him. “He wants to see you, to thank you. He will receive you whenever you wish.”

And receive me he did, in one of those high-ceilinged rooms in the Ministry with polished parquet floors and beautiful Baluchistan carpets—receive me moreover at a magnificent rosewood desk
containing
nothing but an empty blotter and his own silver cigarette lighter. It was the sort of desk which is only used to initial an
occasional
treaty. He was paler, thinner and a good deal sadder at close
quarters than I had imagined him to be—but the thin man gave off a sort of excited candence. It was gratitude partly, but also mixed with curiosity. Touching his ear with a tapering finger he asked if anyone knew of my inventions, and whether I had taken any steps to profit by them. I had only thought vaguely of the matter—the first thing was to perfect the idea…. “No. No” he said emphatically, standing up in his excitement. “My dear friend, do not lose your chance. There may be a great fortune in this for you; you must
protect
yourself somehow.” His rapid and fluent French conveyed better than English could have done the temper of his excitement; I suppose I must have presented myself badly, vaguely, for my apparent indifference piqued him. “Please,” he said “I implore you to let me express my gratitude by putting you in touch with my associates who would be glad to help you put the whole thing on a proper basis. I am determined that you must not lose by this thing. Or must I plead with Hippolyta to convince you? Reflect.” I confess I thought he exaggerated somewhat, but what was there to lose? “You could at least examine their proposals; if you agreed with them you would find yourself well protected. There could be a great fortune in this device.”

I thanked him and agreed. “Let me take it upon myself to send you to Polis for a few days to meet them and discuss with them. No harm can come of it; but at least my conscience will be at rest. I owe you a debt, sir.”

I was indeed a little puzzled by my own hesitation in the matter. Certes, I had vaguely thought of patenting the device one day and licensing it perhaps; but several reasons came into play here. First, it seemed to spoil all the fun, second I could not be sure that other devices of the same order had not been thought of—the principle was spade-simple. But these considerations seemed to carry little weight with Graphos who brushed them aside with the remark that within a week he could find out and have the matter put upon a
professional
basis. Well, I let it go at that, but before leaving
congratulated
him somewhat sychophantically upon the speech which I had not read. He winced and became shy, and I suddenly saw what an effort it must have cost this shy, reticent and orderly mind to launch itself into public affairs. He had the soul of a grammarian, not a
demagogue. When I spoke, for example, of the poetry I pretended to discover in it he held up thin hands to his ears and protested. “Rhetoric, not poetry. You could not convince with mere poetry. Indeed there has always been something a little suspect about the latter for me since I read that Rimbaud insisted on wearing a top-hat in London. No, our objectives are limited ones. If we get in again it will be to try and prove only that the key to the political animal is magnanimity. A frail hope I agree.” And he smiled his pale sad smile, moistening his lips with his snaky tongue. His fine small teeth were turned inwards, like the spokes of a lobster-pot. “So you will agree to let me send you?” I nodded and he sighed with
unfeigned
relief and rose to shake my hands with a surprising gratitude. “You don’t know how much pleasure it will give me to send you to see my associates; even if nothing should come of it I shall feel I have discharged my obligation to you. Certainly you will have nothing to complain of from the firm.”

The blue sunlight of Athens seemed so firm and stable a
back-cloth
to my restless ideas that I was not conscious of having made any kind of decision, far less a momentous one. Hippolyta slept in her cane chair under a fallen triumphant newspaper, showing a tip of tongue, smiling like a javelin-thrower who has scored a hit. Caradoc, beside her, put a finger to his lips and smiled. It was still early, the bees dew-capped from the flowers they visited. “An olive-branch nailed to the inn-door of the world.” Far away in the harbour the sirens went bim and their echoes bim bim to slap the buttocky waters of the sound, scattering from one steel surface to the next. “I am going to Turkey.” Caradoc gestured. “Shh!”

So we sat, hushed in sunlight, until I felt a drowsiness creeping over me—compact with fragments seeded from recent memories of conversations jumbled and jostled—switching points like express trains as they roared through deserted junctions. Hippo, for
example
, in a reported speech: “I cannot sleep alone, yet no-one pleases me. It is a real dilemma.” The turntable spinning away into sleep, lips parted. Then with equal suddenness some articles from Sipple’s rooms which I was not conscious of having noticed at the time: cold prunes and custard in a chipped soup-plate, a blue enamel teapot, and a large pair of dressmaker’s scissors. Then some
unidentified
naked woman from the Anthology, “of delicate address and lovely insinuation”. Dead notes on a classical keyboard—or might it have been already Benedicta? Here is a love-letter. “
Benedicta
, I love you. The collection of delta spacings for several
radiations
permits the identification of spurious peaks resulting either from target contamination or incomplete filtration of K alpha radiation. Your Felix”. Yes, on some mutinous machine like Abel, will dawn one day the cabyric smile. Idly drifting, thistledownwise came Koepgen with his “promissory notes drawn upon reality”. Monks with impetigo, their heads shaved, arousing his pithy sarcasm with their great leather-bound octavo farts. “Must one, then, negotiate with God?” he exclaims oddly; hunting as if for a thorn one can’t quite locate—this is not in my line. Some tiny tufts of north wind rise now and shuffle the roses. Caradoc is trying to keep awake by writing a Mnemon, as he calls it. We have promised to collaborate on a macabre pantomime to be called “The Babes in the Food”. As sudden but less distinct comes the scorching rain of white roses in
Faust
—whole epochs of redemption or desire.
Caradoc
saying with much severity about K: “He has been slumming among the Gnostics, selling his birthright for a pot of message. He will end by becoming an Orthodox Proust or a monarcho-trappist. All monks are grotesque lay figures—figures of funk.”

Then away beyond Cape Sunion towards those distant
lighthouses
of sorrow across the waters, memories of Leander, where the Moslem dead await us with an elaborate indifference. Sweet,
aquiline
and crucial rise the stalks of the women’s tombs, the soulless women of the Islamic canon. In marble one can see the pointed
conciseness
of a death which promises no afterlife—without the placebo of soul or resurrection. My own faint snoring matches that of C’s and the soft even breathing of Hippolyta in that Athenian sunlight.

W
ell, and so it was that the little Polybus alternately leeched and strode across the mountainous yet sunny Aegean, buffeted by a fresh north wind—a sea rolled into episodes, into long spitcurls of
sea-sodium
. The dirty little steamer was used to this and worse—the shrapnel bursts of spray along her grimy spars. On we went bounding like a celluloid duck. Mountains of excrement and vomit
accompanied
the dazed passengers, and the sea held until the straits were reached and we turned down the long brown sinus with its darned shrub—its hint of an alimentary canal leading to the inland sea. Here we gathered a hard-earned knot or two of speed. So upwards at last into a misty gulf and thence, wheeling now in a long arc to the left, to paddle into Kebir Kavak for
pratique.
Here, while they were hauling the yellow flag up and down and exchanging the windy garble of mariners’ talk, I first set eyes on Mr. Sacrapant who had been detailed to meet me. He sat in the stern sheets of the quarantine cutter gazing with a kind of sweet holiness up into my face, watching my expression as I fingered the engraved visiting card. It had been sent aboard by a sailor and it read

I ducked and he ducked back; a faint smile illumined that pale clerkish countenance. The infernal noise of engines precluded more intimate exchanges. But presently he was allowed aboard. He negotiated the gangway with an erratic and somewhat elderly
spriteliness
. His hands were warm and tender, his eyes moist with emotion. “We have been waiting for you” he said almost reproachfully “with such impatience. And now Mr. Pehlevi is in the islands for the
weekend
. He asked me to look after you until he comes. I cannot express my pleasure, Mr. Charlock.” It seemed a bit overdone but he was charming in his white drill suit, elastic-sided boots, and white straw
hat. A very large tie-pin gathered the wings of his collar over his scraggy neck. His eyes were very pale blue. Once they may have been very beautiful, almost plumbago. He spoke English as it is learned in the commercial schools of the Levant, a sort of anglo-tradesman; but very accurately and with a pretty accent. “You may relax, Mr. Charlock, for you are in my hands. I will answer any questions you put. I am the firm’s senior adviser.”

And so it was with Sacrapant as a companion that I came upwater at last to dangle in view of the Golden Horn where the immense inertia—the marasmus of Turkey—drifted out with sea-damps to finger my soul. Cryptogram, yes, these huge walls of liquid dung baked by the sun into tumefied shapes. It all had a fine deliquescent charm—the coaxing palms, the penis-turreted domes, the lax and faded colouring of a dream turning to nightmare. Mr. Sacrapant pointed out all the sights and explained them carefully, with the exactitude of a book-keeper, but in kindly fashion, chuckling from time to time as he did so. Moreover he was splendidly efficient,
darting
here and there with tickets and passports, buttonholing officials, exhorting sailors and porters. “For tonight the Pera hotel” he
explained
“will enable you to rest. There is every luxe. Tomorrow I will come and take you to the Pehlevi
danglion
—a water pavilion. It is prepared for you. It will be very comfortable. You will be just fine, fine.” He repeated the word with his characteristic pious
effervescence
, joining his hands together and squeezing them. Very well.

It was the least I could do to offer him dinner when at last we arrived, and he accepted the invitation with alacrity. I confess that with the sinking sun on that gaunt but beautiful terrace I was glad of company for I felt the death-grip of the Turkish night settling upon me—a sort of nameless panic wafted up with the smell of jasmine from the gardens below, from the chain-mail ramparts of forts and ravelins which enclose Polis like the scar tissue of old wounds upon which the blood has dried black. Sacrapant was someone to talk to—but not until our meal was well on its way. He addressed himself to the menu with the same fervour—indeed he removed his
wrist-watch
and placed it in a safe corner before picking up his knife and fork. Also he put upon his nose a pair of pince-nez the better to instruct me in the intricacies of the local cuisine. A small vermouth
had brought a flush to his cheek. But at last, somewhat assuaged by the fare, he leaned back and undid his coat buttons. “I cannot tell you what pleasure it gives me” he said “to think of you joining the firm—O I know that you have only come to discuss with Mr. Pehlevi.” Here he pointed his long forefinger at his own earhole to show that he knew the subject of our discussion. “But if you agree with him, you will never never repent, Mr. Charlock. Merlin’s is a marvellous firm to work for—or to let it work for you.” He chuckled and rolled his eye. “Marvellous” he said. “Whether one is its slave or its master.” I stared at him, eager to know more.

Mr. Sacrapant continued: “Excuse me if you think my feelings are excessive, but when I look at you I can’t help the thought that if I had a son he would be about your age. With what joy I would have seen him enter Merlin’s.” He spoke about the organisation as if it were a religious order. “That is why.” And he gave my hand a shy pat, adding ruefully “But Mrs. Sacrapant can only make girls with me, five girls. And here in Stamboul for girls …” He rubbed finger and thumb together expressively and hissed on a lower note the word “Dowries”. Then he once more lay back in a sort of infantile rapture and went on. “But there again, the firm, thank God for the jolly old firm. They will look after all. No detail is too small, and no
organisation
offers comparable status and benefits in the Levant. We are a hundred years ahead of our time.” He poured himself a thimbleful of wine and drank it off like a hero.

It was puzzling, this string of homilies—as if he had been sent to soften me up before my negotiations with Pehlevi began. And yet … Sacrapant was so guileless and so likeable. He dropped his napkin, and in retrieving it inadvertently revealed a strip of sock and calf. I was intrigued to see, strapped to his thin ankle, a small scout-knife such as a girl-cub might use to pierce the tinfoil on a jampot. He followed the direction of my glance. “Shh” said Mr. Sacrapant. “Say nothing. In Stamboul, Mr. Charlock, one never knows. But if attacked by a Moslem I would give a good account of myself—you may be sure.” He blushed and tittered and then all at once became grave, plunged in reverie. “Tell me more about the firm” I said, since it seemed his only topic. He sighed. “Ah the firm!” he said. “When will I ever cease to be grateful to it? But I will do better, I
will show it to you. I have instructions to do so. At least as much of it as we manage from here—for we are only the Levant end. The firm is world-wide, you know, in London Berlin New York. Mr. Pehlevi’s brother Julian runs the London end. Yes, you shall see it for yourself. It will take up the time until Mr. Jocas comes back from the islands on Monday.” It sounded an interesting way of passing the time and seeing something of the city. As I walked him through the damp garden with its throbbing crickets he went on sincerely, rather touchingly. “You know—perhaps you don’t—how hard it is in the Levant to have any sort of security, Mr. Charlock. It is hard to earn good money if you have children. That is why I am so happy. The firm has meant to me serenity for wife and loved ones. Yes, and
insurance
too, we are all covered. Believe me, outside the firm it can be … very hard cheese I think you say in English? Very hard cheese.”

Before taking the one dilapidated taxi he lingered for some further chatter, unwilling to end the evening; and I was glad, thinking of the ghastly bedroom that awaited me. I had forgotten to bring
something
to read. For his part Sacrapant behaved like a man who had been deprived of any social life, who was hungry for company. Yet he had only this one topic, the firm. “You see it is very wide. Old Mr. Merlin the founder did not believe in building up and cornering one market; he preferred to build horizontally.” He drew his hand along his body with a stroking gesture. “We are very wide rather than very tall. There is great variety of holdings, but few are exclusive to
ourselves.
That is why the firm is so wide, why there is room for
everyone
in it—well, almost everyone.” Here he stopped and frowned. “There are some exceptions. I forgot to tell you that Count Banubula is staying in your hotel. Now he is one. He has tried for years to join the firm but with no hope. It is nothing to do with his behaviour, though when he is in Stamboul he behaves … well, very strangely. You know him I think.”

“Yes, of course. But what has he done?”

“I don’t know” said Mr. Sacrapant compressing his lips and shooting me a furtive glance. “But I expect the firm does. Anyway, they will not let him in; he has exhausted his nerves in pleading but Mr. Jocas is adamant. There are one or two like him. The firm makes an example of them, and they are blocked. It is a huge pity for him
for he is a gentleman, though his behaviour in Stamboul would not let you think so.”

“But he is a very mild and quiet man.”

“Ah” said Mr. Sacrapant on a reproving note.

“And is Merlin still alive?”

“No” said Mr. Sacrapant, but he spoke in a whisper this time, and in a fashion that somehow carried little conviction. I had the
impression
that he was not at all certain. “Of course not” he added,
trying
to bolster the simple affirmative; but all of a sudden he looked startled and somewhat discountenanced, like a frightened rabbit. He took my hand and squeezed it saying: “I will come tomorrow and take you down to the offices for a look. Now I must go.” On this somewhat ambiguous note we parted. I turned back into the hotel relieved to see that there were still a few lights on—notably in the bar. And here I was overjoyed to come upon Count Banubula, the only occupant of the place, gloomily consulting his own reflections in the tarnished mirrors.

His appearance had undergone a subtle change which had not been apparent when I entered the room. How to say it? He looked flushed, snouty, and somehow concupiscent. He swayed ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly, as very tall buildings do. “Ah” he said as he caught sight of me, in a new and rather insolent fashion. “Ah Charlock!” I echoed his “Ah” on the same note, my curiosity aroused, for this was certainly not the Count Banubula I knew. “What about a little drink?” he went on sternly. It was virtually an order and I obeyed gladly. His waistcoat was undone and his monocle tinkled loosely against the buttons. The light was too bad to enable me to be sure, but it seemed to me that his lips and eyebrows had been discreetly touched up. This is, of course, a service which any barber will perform in the Orient on request. Banubula raised the sad plumes of his heavy eyebrows and closed his eyes, breathing slowly through his nose. Yes, he was drunk.

The barman produced two whiskies and disappeared through a hatch. Still with eyes shut the Count said: “I knew you were coming. I have been here some time. Ah, my goodness, if you only knew. I can’t leave till Thursday now.” He started an involuntary spin like a top, and just managed to find his way to a chair. “Sit” he said, in the
same authoritative way. “It is better so.” I obeyed, and sat opposite him, staring at him. There was a very long silence, so long indeed that I thought he would drop off to sleep but no, he had been setting his mind to the problem of conversation. “Do you know what Caradoc said about me?” asked the Count with slow sad tones. “He said I looked like a globe artichoke, and that I would die, a whisky-stiffened mummy in some Turkish bagnio.” He gave a sudden squawk of laughter and then sank back into this oozing gloom, eyeing me narrowly. “Cruel man” he said. “They are all cruel men. For years I have done their dirty work. There have never been the small rewards I asked for. Nothing. No hope. I go on and on. But I have reached the end of my tether. I am in despair,
Charlock
. At my age one can’t go on and on and on and on….” his voice sank into a mumble. “But who are these people?” I said.

“It isn’t anybody special, it’s just the firm.”

“Merlin’s?”

He nodded sadly. “O Lord” I said “does no one talk about
anything
else in this city?”

The Count had taken a leap into autobiography and did not heed my remark. “I love my dear wife” he said “and I esteem her. But now she sits all day with her hair done up in a scarf and curl papers writing long letters about God to Theosophists. And I have become
abnormal
, you see Charlock? Without wishing it. In these hot climates one cannot be deprived of one’s rights without something happening. Since she became religious all is ended; yet I could never divorce her because of the scandal. My name is an ancient one.” He blew his nose violently in a silk handkerchief and dibbled a finger in his right ear to clear it. Then he shook his head with equal violence, as if to clear his brain. “And then all these negotiations, all this pleading. It has made me a very superstitious man, Charlock. I feel I must try and avert a horrible fate—unless they relent. Look!” He threw open his waistcoat to reveal a plump white chest to which was attached an iodine locket. He waited for my comment, but it was somewhat difficult to find words; the iodine locket was the talisman of the day, much advertised in the vulgar press. It promised health to the wearer for a very small outlay. “But health is no good” said
Banubula
sadly “if one’s fate is wrong. I have been a student of Abraxas
for several years now, and I know my fate is wrong. Do you know how I defend myself?” I shook my head. He detached from his key ring a small Chaldean bronze leaf inscribed after the fashion of amulets thus: