A Man Over Forty (13 page)

This generous welcome was characteristic of the temper which had dominated the eastern states of America for many
years. The last vestiges of New England's Puritanism had long since been discarded, and often, when some obscure relic of the past – perhaps domiciled in Boston – had protested against the importation of depraved writings from Europe, judges of the upper courts had vied with each other to proclaim the Four Freedoms of the Arts: Freedom of Expression, Freedom from Suppression; Freedom to Shock, and Freedom to be Shocked.

In this great quadrilateral of freedom – for which the New World had been discovered – the art of Ingo Pomador and his collaborator, Nova, soon became famous, and was accorded official recognition when the magazine
Time
was published with portraits of Ingo and Nova on its front cover, and a large and magnificent Autopornograph, in sultry colours, was bought by the Chase Manhattan Bank for one of the dominating rooms which topped its imperial new building above the Atlantic waterways that washed and fed Manhattan Island.

Then came the exhibition, of forty new works, at the Guggenheim Museum; and a few days after its opening, Balintore and Palladis had walked to it along the cold pavement beside the frozen tundra of Central Park – and Balintore had been shocked by the sight of Nova's name on the placard which advertised it.

Was Nova in New York? It was more than probable, it was almost certain. Perhaps she stood with Ingo Pomador to welcome visitors to the exhibition! How horrible a thought. And how fortunate that Palladis had never heard of Nova, and so knew nothing of the emotion which had compelled Balintore to turn his back on Guggenheim and, at all speed, to seek sanctuary with Frick.…

Now, when he was going smoothly down in an elevator through the spinal parts of the Hotel Henry James to meet Polly Newton in the Golden Bowl Tavern – now he remembered with a sudden shudder that shock to his precariously regained composure, and with renewed dismay faced the possibility – the probability – that at this very moment Nova was one of the several million people who, within half a mile of him, breathed the re-breathed and re-heated exhausted air of Manhattan. She might, even now, be in a taxi slowly moving down 54th Street!

The elevator stopped on the ground floor, and with a shiver he rebuked his nonsensical fear. The odds against his meeting her were a million to one, two million to one, and therefore he had nothing to fear. But he was glad when, looking at his watch, he saw that it was only five o'clock. Not for half an hour – half an hour at least – could he expect to see Polly, and he had time to drink one or two of those dry Martinis that only American bartenders shook to such cold potency. One or two of them would drown the last remnant of his ridiculous fear of meeting Nova – and give him the assurance to take part in what might well be an emotional argument with Polly. ‘Better Dutch courage than native diffidence,' he thought.

Except for a brightly lit Golden Bowl on one wall – a capacious chalice like a secular interpretation of the Holy Grail – the tavern was almost as dark as a Norwegian barn in late November; but more comfortably furnished. Two elderly plump barmen – acolytes before a heavily furnished altar – presided over a gleaming hoard of internationally distilled liquors, and silently replenished the glasses of the paired customers who, almost unseen in the general shadow, sat at small tables to discuss their urgent problems. A pianist in a far corner played gently such old and sentimental tunes as
Valencia, Lily of Laguna
, and the
Destiny
waltz.

Balintore drank with appreciation his first Martini, and going to the bar asked, in a clear Britannic voice, for another. A wish to ingratiate himself with the barman – which barmen inspire as readily as traffic policemen, first officers of ocean liners, and the examining doctors of life-insurance companies – impelled him to say, ‘I'm second to none in my admiration of shad roe, American poetry, and the late Mrs Roosevelt, but I doubt if your national genius has ever been so agreeably refined as in a good dry Martini.'

‘That's what I certainly like to hear,' said the barman – but was interrupted by the sudden emergence, out of darkness, of a voice with a far-carrying tone that exclaimed, ‘Ned! Oh, Ned, what are you doing here?'

Balintore, more startled than the barman – for he recognized the voice – looked round and saw a pale familiar face rising out of shadow, and with it, like the branches of an olive
tree shaken by an unexpected wind, two wavering pale arms that reached towards him.

‘Louise!' he said. ‘Good God, Louise!'

On reluctant feet, with a sensation of unreal movement, he went to her table, and was fondly embraced. ‘This is a miracle,' she said, and pushed him away to look searchingly at him, as if to reassure herself that it was indeed her sometime husband whom she held in her feverish thin hands. The snub and slightly negroid prettiness of her face had been subtly changed – perhaps by cosmetic operation – and now she had something of the impersonal, even abstract look of the professional model advertising beach-wear or a new skin-food; but there was a sad bewilderment in her eyes. ‘It's a miracle,' she repeated. ‘You have come at the very moment when I was praying for help.'

‘Not so loudly,' said Balintore. ‘Your voice – it's even louder than it used to be, Louise.'

‘Call me Nova.'

The barman brought Balintore's Martini, and Nova said to him, ‘Another for me.'

They sat down, and Balintore said, ‘I'm sorry – I'm very sorry – to meet you like this, and find you unhappy. But what's making you unhappy? I thought you were enjoying a great success.'

‘That's it,' she said, and looked at him in sore perplexity. Tears welled into her wide eyes, but were not shed.

‘Success? Has success made you miserable?'

‘When did you come to New York?' she asked.

‘A day or two ago. The day before yesterday, I think.'

‘Have you seen the new pictures?'

‘No.'

‘I'm glad,' she said. ‘Oh, I'm thankful and glad.'

‘You don't like them?'

‘They cast a shadow on my immortal soul. Or so I've been told.'

‘Who told you?'

‘Maybe God. I don't know.'

Balintore moved uneasily, and asked, ‘How long have you been here? I mean here in the Golden Bowl?'

‘Most of the afternoon.'

‘Drinking?'

‘What else is there to do?'

It had become evident that Nova had not only had a little too much to drink, but through her association with Ingo Pomador and action painting had acquired a slight American accent. There was a touch of severity in Balintore's voice when he spoke again.

‘If I'm going to help you – and I must warn you I haven't much time – you'll have to tell me what's troubling you. What sort of trouble you're in.'

‘I've got a friend—'

‘Ingo Pomador?'

‘No, not him. Not a man. She's a woman.'

Nova blew her nose and said, ‘I think it's a great mistake to make friends with people. They try to influence you. What's wrong with people is they're always trying to influence other people.'

‘In what way are you being influenced?'

‘You did it too,' said Nova. ‘When we were married, I mean. You tried, not only to make me do things I didn't want to do, but to think thoughts I'd never have had, so that I'd do what you wanted as if I wanted it too. I don't mean anything wrong, but like remembering to write letters to say thank you, and pretending to have read Proust, and using olive-oil in the kitchen.'

‘I don't see what that has to do with your present unhappiness.'

‘You don't, but I do. You made me listen to you, and I got into the habit of listening to other people. This friend of mine, for instance.'

‘What has she told you?'

‘She's very intellectual, and religious too. She lectures on Comparative Religion at Columbia –
comparative
religion, though she's a Catholic. A Roman Catholic. Well, that just means, of course, that other religions don't even begin to compare with hers.'

‘How does that affect you.'

Nova's unshed tears rolled slowly down her cheeks, and
mournfully she said, ‘I shouldn't ever have got mixed up with a religious friend. It's just asking for trouble! She's got friends too, and one of them is a priest called Father Dominic. She took him to see those pictures at the Guggenheim Museum.'

‘What did he think of them?'

‘I went and had tea with them – with my friend and Father Dominic – and he said I shouldn't have lent myself to that sort of thing. Not even in the name of art. He said it was wrong. He said it was morally wrong.'

‘And that upset you?'

‘Well, naturally.'

‘But why?'

‘Well, it simply bewildered me! So the next time I went to see my analyst, I asked him.'

‘Your analyst?'

‘I go to him three times a week.'

‘What for?'

‘Well, everybody does. You want to understand things, don't you? Why you aren't happy, and what sort of motivations you ought to acquire. All that sort of thing. So I said to my analyst – there was I, lying on the couch, and he was sitting up at his desk, taking notes – I said to him, “Now you've got to help me. I want to know the difference between right and wrong.”'

‘Did he tell you?'

‘He blew his top! He got up and stomped across the room, and said he'd no interest in the old, outworn negatives of an obsolete society, and if I thought a conditioned reflex had any conceptual validity I ought to go back to Grade One.'

‘I don't think I know what that means.'

‘I tried to make him explain, but he just got more and more angry, and said I ought to know that if science hadn't got rid of everything which couldn't be explained, it wouldn't be scientific. Well, that wasn't much help, so I went and told my friend, and she said I ought to have another talk with Father Dominic.'

‘Did you?'

‘Give me your handkerchief,' she said, and mopped her freely flowing tears.

Balintore waved a commanding hand to the barman, and ordered two more dry Martinis.

‘What did he tell you?'

‘He says I ought to go into a convent! It seems there's a convent in Connecticut that gives instruction to girls who want to become Roman Catholics, and know the difference between right and wrong. And that's where I ought to go, he says!'

‘Do you want to go there?'

‘No!' she said. ‘But if it's wrong to be doing what I do with Ingo, I don't want to do that either. I don't want to do wrong – but how do I know the difference? Even my analyst doesn't know.'

‘It's a question,' said Balintore, ‘that requires close and scrupulous attention.'

‘But is there a difference?'

‘Oh, certainly. Of course there is.'

‘Well, what is it?'

‘There are different ways of looking at the question – I'd like more time to consider it – and don't you feel too hot in here?'

‘I've got cold shivers running over me.'

‘Perhaps another drink would help?'

‘That'll make seven.'

Again Balintore summoned a barman, and told Nova, ‘Perhaps you ought to do what Father Dominic suggests.'

‘Go into a convent?'

He knew a moment's hesitation – he was aware that a latent jealousy of Ingo Pomador was in part responsible for what he was about to say – but he accepted the fact that jealousy had always had a share in the giving of advice, and said firmly, ‘Yes, go into a convent and receive instruction.'

‘But I don't want to!'

‘If, after a few months,' he said, ‘you feel you can't accept all you've been told – but if, in consequence of what you've learnt, you aren't inclined to go back to Ingo Pomador and resume your partnership with him – well, you won't be entirely without means to support yourself. Your allowance, your
alimony as it's called, has been paid regularly into your bank in London, and if you haven't been drawing on it, there must be a substantial sum to your credit.'

‘You've been very good to me. Oh, too good!' she said, and sipped a cocktail heavily diluted with her tears.

‘I remember – but no!' said Balintore. ‘There's no point in recalling a felicity that's dead.'

‘But you do remember it?'

‘As something trodden underfoot.'

‘Yes,' she said, ‘I blame myself for a lot – a lot of misunderstanding. I'm more realistic now. But I would like you to meet Ingo.'

‘I have no wish to meet him.'

‘He's wonderful,' she said. ‘Oh, but wonderful! Though I don't suppose you'd like him.'

‘No.'

‘And Father Dominic —'

‘I might not like him either, but the advice he has given you is good advice.'

‘To go into a convent! Oh, Ned!'

She flung her arms round his neck, and pressed her face to his cheek. He felt her tears move slowly, moistly, down his neck; and patted her shoulder in a vain attempt to stiffen a muscular resistance to sorrow. Attached to him like a leech, she cried convulsively, and the pianist in a far corner of the room played softly an old-fashioned suite called
Indian Love Lyrics
.

One of the plump, soft-footed barmen came to them and said, ‘Mr Balintore? There's a lady here wants to speak to you.'

He looked up, across Nova's quivering shoulder, and saw, with a look of cold inquiry on her face, the slim figure of Polly Newton.

‘Polly!' he exclaimed. ‘My dear girl, I'll be with you in a moment —'

‘Oh, no,' she said. ‘Oh, dear me, no! Not if you're engaged. Perhaps I should apologize for intruding —'

‘No, no!' he said. ‘I can explain everything in two minutes —'