The Dower House (2 page)

‘It's me, anyway.' He hardly recognized his own voice. ‘I can't live without you.'

She found her voice then. ‘I watched you come all the way down the street.' She tilted her head toward one of the café tables where, he now saw, she had placed a
GI
shaving mirror. ‘I said to me – myself – I said, “It's not true . . . it's not true . . . it's not true . . .” all the way. Still I not can believe . . .' She reached out and touched his face.

He clasped her hand to his cheek, her cold to his numbness. ‘Fact is . . . I haven't known one single day's happiness since . . . since I . . . I . . . was such a goddam fool, Marianne. There!'

She reached out her thumb and massaged his lips. ‘Will . . . ard!'

‘Think we can start over?' he asked.

‘No!'

‘No?'

‘No – we start where we left off. Already enough time is wasted.'

A waiter came out and began clearing a nearby table.

‘Coffee?' Willard asked her.

She lowered her arm and nodded. ‘Black – he knows. Anton's his name.'

‘Hey, Anton, ol' buddy! Black coffee for the lady and
café-au-lait
for me –
with
milk!'

Marianne laughed. ‘I'd forgotten that one! Oh, Willard!' She reached out and this time gripped his arm. ‘It's so good.
So
good!'

He caught up her hand and kissed it fervently. ‘The goodness lies exclusively on the other side,' he said, paraphrasing a bit of Swedish etiquette she had once taught him. ‘I was ready for you to turn away . . . hit me . . . shout at me . . . spit at me. Ha! Instead it was that lady . . . or that thing at the . . . where you live . . . she spat at me.' He tried to show her but the rain had done its work.

‘Frau Becker? To spit at you? Tskoh!'

‘She didn't mean to, I guess. She just sneezed but she saw where it went and she just did nothing.'

Anton returned with their coffees. ‘And
Schwarzwälderkirsch torte
?' he asked.

‘What else have you got?'

‘Schwarzwälderkirsch torte.'

‘Right – just leave the plate. You counted them, huh?'

The man merely smiled as he left them.

Willard picked up the mirror. ‘I guess you have to watch behind you if you work around here.' He peered at the back of it. ‘Hey! Whaddya know!'

She nodded as she bit hungrily on her torte. ‘I still also have that packed bag,' she said through a mouthful of filo. ‘Yours, too.'

He replaced his ex-mirror. ‘That's good. You
should
eat. You don't look like you've been eating enough.'

‘I knew you'd come back. So I never unpacked.'

‘You really mean it? We head back to your lodging, pick up the bag, and . . . pffft? Hightail it out of town? Really?'

She looked up and down the street. ‘I see nothing to keep us here.' Her hand reached out and took another slice.

He closed his eyes and shook his head.

‘What?' she asked – inasmuch as any word could be articulated through such a mouthful.

‘I'm just beginning to realize how . . . I mean, how little I . . . I dared to imagine how awful, how terrible it would have been if you'd just turned your back on me, here, now, and walked away. I . . . I don't know what I'd have done.'

‘So!' She swallowed hard and cleared her mouth. ‘We can sit here a bit and have a misery competition to see who was
most
miserable. Or . . .'

‘Or?'

‘Or you can tell me about where we shall live in America?'

‘First things first. What say we head for Bielefeld and look up good-ol' Tony and good-ol' Adam?'

‘But they are in London, working on that big plan.'

Willard laughed. ‘Cute! So I'm not the only one to finagle an early discharge! So? Better still – a honeymoon in London!'

Tuesday, 22 April 1947

Felix Breit reached the cul-de-sac at the eastern end of Curzon Street and climbed the couple of steps into Fitzmaurice Place.

Steps
. These of limestone, too.

The occasional car or taxi made its way around Berkeley Square but none entered this short dead-end of a street. At the door to the Lansdowne Club he paused, admiring its English modesty: ‘Number Nine,' painted across the superport; there was no vulgar brass nameplate. He raised the simple knocker, hesitated, then let it fall once only. His imagination had worked on the words ‘English Gentleman's Club' to paint an interior on the scale of the Paris Opera, so he expected to hear cavernous echoes. The knocker fell with a muted thud and without a rebound. After a pause, just as he was about to knock again, the door opened slowly, silently, to reveal a club porter. It opened inwards, which surprised Felix – a further reminder that he was no longer really in Europe. With one swift glance, the porter took in the caller's threadbare scruffiness and was on the point of directing him to the tradesmen's entrance when Felix said, ‘Mister Wilson, please? Mister Adam Wilson?'

‘Mister Wilson is not here at the moment, sir,' the man replied grudgingly. ‘Perhaps you would care to leave a message?'

Felix produced a battered visiting card. ‘Mister Wilson, you see. He gave me this card. And this place?' He pointed superfluously to the club's address, which was printed below Wilson's name: 9, Fitzmaurice Place. Scribbled on the back were the words: ‘Breit – if you ever make it to London, look me up.
A.W
.!'

The porter tried to take the card but Felix clung to it as if it were a Nansen passport (which, in a sense, it was). ‘You'd best come in and wait, Mister . . . er?'

‘Breit. Felix Breit.' He spoke his name with a certain panache, as if the man should recognize it. He showed the back of the card again.

The porter let him in and took him up a short flight of steps past the reception desk.

Steps
. These of marble. Another short flight led to the Crush Room, which was dominated by a large propellor on the far wall. ‘If you wouldn't mind sitting there, Mister Breit?' he said. ‘I can, as it happens, telephone Mister Wilson. Those are the morning papers.'

Left alone, Felix tried to read at least the headlines: D
OLLAR
-L
OAN
T
ALKS
R
EACH
N
EW
I
MPASSE!
But the text danced in a jumble before his eyes. It was partly exhaustion and partly the feverish excitement that had filled him ever since he had set foot on English soil, earlier that morning. He was
here
at last. He had finally, finally made it!

He rose and crossed the room to look at the propellor more closely, considering it as a piece of sculpture. An abstract. He was becoming more and more seduced by the abstract. The human form . . . well, it was difficult. Understandably.

Below the propellor was a framed pilot's licence, the first ever issued in Britain – to someone called Brabazon. What a magnificent name! After an ancient Aryan god, no doubt. Progenitor of countless petty gods, Celtic and Saxon. Felix could feel the sculpture itching in his palms already – Laocöon crossed with Mestrovic? No! Brabazon by Breit – pure Breit – of course!

He became aware that the porter was beckoning him to the phone. His heart sank. He had forgotten everything about Adam Wilson – and even the name of that other Englishman who had been with him the day they liberated Mauthausen. He could pass them in the street and never know it. Perhaps he had even done so, between Victoria and here. That whole period was turning into one merciful blur in his mind. Only the visiting card and its lifeline of promise, was sharp.

‘Yes, hello, please?' he said. ‘Mister Wilson?'

‘Herr Breit? Is that really . . .'

‘Please!
Mister
Breit.'

‘Ah yes, of course. So it really is you! But how marvellous! I can hardly believe it.'

‘Your card was all I had . . .'

‘This is amazing. How are you now? Much better, I hope? Well, you could hardly be worse!'

Still no picture attached itself to that tinny voice. ‘Yes, I am much better than when you saw me last, thank you.'

‘Well, as I say, that wouldn't be difficult. Listen – there's no point in having a long conversation now. I can be with you in twenty minutes or so. Can you wait? I don't know what plans you—'

Felix laughed. ‘I can wait, Mister Wilson. Believe me!'

‘Silly question. When did you arrive in London?'

‘Since two hours ago.'

‘My goodness! A man who wastes no time, eh! Listen – be with you in no time, old man. And another thing – you won't believe this, but I have Tony Palmer with me at this moment – actually in my office! He was my oppo in
AMGOT
– the other English officer who was there that same day. I don't know if you remember much? But I'll bring him, too. He's grinning his head off here already. We'll both be over the moon to see you again.'

‘I remember him well. Both of you.' Felix rummaged for his pocket sketchbook and scribbled the name: Tony Palmer.

‘Good. Good. Let me have another word with McIver, the porter, eh?'

Wilson told the porter that Felix was his guest and was to be given whatever he wanted in the way of food or drink.

‘He'd be some kind of
DP
, would he, sir?' The porter asked, anxious for some honourable explanation of Felix's scruffiness.

‘Before the war, McIver, Felix Breit was probably the finest sculptor in Czechoslovakia. Or was it Hungary? One of those places, anyway. The only reason he's alive today . . . tell me, is he close enough to overhear this?'

‘No, sir.'

‘He spent part of the war in one of those concentration camps. The only reason he's here today is that the Nazis kept him alive for medical experiments. He's been very ill but now he's an honoured guest who deserves our every consideration. I'm sure you understand me?'

‘Completely, Mister Wilson, sir. Leave it with me.' He cleared his throat. ‘Just by chance, sir, Mister Corvo's in the Oval Room. The art critic, you know. I wonder . . . ?'

‘Good idea, McIver. You're worth your weight in gold, man. Make the introductions for me, there's a good chap. Tell them I'll be along in two shakes.'

What finally reassured McIver as to the status of this down-at-heel European type was Corvo's response. ‘Felix Breit?' he asked, springing to his feet. ‘
The
Felix Breit? My dear fellow – so you finally made it here! Wilson and I moved heaven and earth to find you after he came back to London, but you seemed to have vanished off the face of Europe. Where were you hiding?'

Felix observed Corvo closely throughout this speech. The man's name was vaguely familiar. ‘In hospital in Salzburg,' he said. ‘My papers went astray and for a long time I was delirious. Then
TB
. And then convalescence in Hamburg.

McIver cleared his throat. ‘Mister Wilson said that if Mister Breit wanted anything in the way of refreshment . . . ?'

Corvo was all smiles. ‘It would only be a spam sandwich at this hour – or might we rustle up an egg?'

Felix said, ‘They wouldn't allow me scotch. I haven't tasted Scotch for three years. If you had even just a thimbleful?'

McIver thought he might be able to find a small sample of Scotch – and an egg and tomato sandwich, too.

Corvo took him into the Oval Room, saying, ‘This is where George the Third was forced to sign away the American Colony, you know – in this actual room – when all this was Lord Lansdowne's private house. What a momentous bit of paper that was, eh! And now I sit here and scribble little jewelled articles for a living!'

Felix suddenly remembered where he had heard the name. ‘Are you
William
Corvo, by chance?' he asked. ‘The Corvo who wrote the British Council monograph on Kokoshka's English period?'

Corvo beamed. ‘You know it?'

‘One of the first things they put into my hands when I could read once more.'

‘I'm flattered. Oscar still lives here, you know – down in Cornwall. Minus the famous doll! Martin Bloch is also here. I hope you'll be staying, too, Breit. So many of you brilliant Europeans are merely passing through on your way to America. I'm sure it's a great mistake. In the world of art America is
still
a colony – and likely to remain so. The post-war renaissance in art will be here in England. Art and Henry Ford are not compatible.' He raised his hands and gave a self-deprecatory smile, implying that he knew such talk was premature.

But Felix encouraged him with the lift of an eyebrow and a murmured, ‘Interesting.'

Corvo needed no further invitation. It was a dreadful thing to say, but England had undoubtedly benefited from Hitler's loathing of ‘modern' artists. Dozens of them had set up shop here: Bloch in Camberwell, Grose – teaching at Bedford but he'd come to London as soon as the theatres got into swing again – and Mestrovic, of course . . .

‘My first hero,' Felix said. ‘But for him I'd be an academic blacksmith today. Mestrovic, then Arp. And Brancusi, naturally.'

‘Well, Paris isn't so far, either. The
Golden Arrow
is starting again soon. And when air travel gets going again, it'll only be an hour. London–Paris will be the new artistic axis of the world. And –' he glanced all about him and lowered his voice – ‘strictly between ourselves, I think London will be the heavier end.'

Paris. His apartment on the Rue d'Argenteuil in the First Arrondissement, which was also the first arrondissement to be ‘cleansed' by the Gestapo and their French collaborators. ‘Paris is not a good memory for me.'

‘Of course not.' Corvo was sympathetic. ‘I heard about it from André Derain – when we were trying to trace you.'