The Judas Tree (2 page)

Presently he came to the outer suburbs: streets which seemed to have been scrubbed, green-shuttered white houses, with their front plots of asters and begonias, their window-boxes filled with blooming geraniums and petunias. Such flowers – he had never seen the like! And over all such a clean quiet air of neatness and efficiency, as if everything were ordered and would never break down – and indeed nothing did; as if honesty, civility and politeness were the watchwords of the people.

How wise in his special circumstances to settle here, away from the vulgarity of the present age: the hipsters and the beatniks, the striptease, the rock-and-roll, the ridiculous mouthings of angry young men, the lunatic abstractions of modern art, and all the other horrors and obscenities of a world gone mad.

To friends in America who had protested against his decision, and in particular to Holbrook, his partner in the Stamford company, who had gone so far as to ridicule the country and its inhabitants, he had reasoned calmly, logically. Hadn't Wagner spent seven happy and fruitful years in this same canton, composing
Die Meistersinger
and even – this with a smile – a brilliant march for the local fire brigade? The house, now a museum, still stood as evidence. Did not Shelley, Keats and Byron spend long periods of romantic leisure in the vicinity? As for the lake, Turner had painted it, Rousseau had rowed upon it, Ruskin had raved about it.

Nor was he burying himself in a soulless vacuum. He had his books, his collection of beautiful things. Besides, if the native Swiss were not – how should he put it nicely? – not intellectually stimulating, there existed in Melsburg an expatriate society, a number of delightful people, of whom Madame von Altishofer was one, who had accepted him as a member of their coterie. And if this were not enough, the airport at Zurich lay within a forty-minute drive, and thereafter in two hours, or less, he was in Paris … Milan … Vienna … studying the rich textures of Titian's
Entombment;
hearing Callas in
Tosca
; savouring the marvellous
Schafsragout mit Weisskraut
in Sacher's Bar.

By this time he had reached the Lauerbach nursery. Here he made his selection of roses, resolutely adding several varieties of his own choice to the list Wilhelm had given him, although wryly aware that his would probably perish mysteriously while the others would survive and flourish. When he left the nursery it was still quite early, only eleven o'clock. He decided to return by Melsburg and do some errands.

The town was pleasantly empty, most of the visitors gone, the lakeside promenade, where crisp leaves from the pollard chestnuts were already rustling, half deserted. This was the season Moray enjoyed, which he viewed as an act of repossession. The twin spires of the cathedral seemed to pierce the sky more sharply, the ring of ancient forts, no longer floodlit, grew old and grey again, the ancient Mels Brücke, free of gaping sightseers, calmly resumed its true identity.

He parked in the square by the fountain and, without even thinking of locking the car, strolled into the town. First he visited his tobacconist's, bought a box of two hundred of his special Sobranie cigarettes, then at the apothecary's a large flask of Pineau's Eau de Quinine, the particular hair tonic he always used. In the next street was Maier's, the famous confectioner's. Here, after a chat with Herr Maier, he sent off a great package of milk chocolate to Holbrook's children in Connecticut – they'd never get chocolate of
that
quality in Stamford. As an afterthought – he had a sweet tooth – he took away a deml-kilo of the new season's
marrons glacés
for himself. Shopping here really was a joy, he told himself, one met smiles and politeness on every side.

He was now in the Stadplatz where, answering a subconscious prompting, his legs had borne him. He could not refrain from smiling, though with a slight sense of guilt. Immediately opposite stood the Galerie Leuschner: He hesitated, humorously aware that he was yielding to temptation. But the thought of the Vuillard pastel drove him on. He crossed the street, pushed open the door of the gallery, and went in.

Leuschner was in his office looking over a folio of pen-and-ink sketches. The dealer, a plump, smooth, smiling little man, whose morning coat, striped trousers and pearl tie-pin were notably
de rigueur
, greeted Moray with cordial deference, yet with an uncommercial air which assumed his presence in the gallery to be purely casual. They discussed the weather.

‘These are quite nice,' Leuschner presently remarked, indicating the folio, when they had finished with the weather. ‘And reasonable. Kandinsky is a very underrated man.'

Moray had no interest in Kandinsky's gaunt figures and simian faces, and he suspected that the dealer knew this, yet both spent the next fifteen minutes examining the drawings and praising them. Then Moray took up his hat.

‘By the way,' he said offhandedly, ‘I suppose you still have the little Vuillard we glanced at last week.'

‘Only just.' The dealer suddenly looked grave. ‘An American collector is most interested.'

‘Rubbish,' Moray said lightly. ‘ There are no Americans left in Melsburg.'

‘This American is in Philadelphia – the Curator of the Art Museum. Shall I show you his telegram?'

Moray, inwardly alarmed, shook his head in a manner implying amused dubiety.

‘Are you still asking that ridiculous price? After all, it's only a pastel.'

‘Pastel is Vuillard's medium,' Leuschner replied, with calm authority. ‘And I assure you, sir, this one is worth every centime of the price. Why, when you consider the other day in London a few rough brush strokes by Renoir, some half-dozen wretched-looking strawberries, a pitiful thing, really, of which the master must have been heartily ashamed, brought twenty thousand pounds.… But this, this is a gem, worthy of your fine collection, and you know how rare
good
Post-Impressionists have become, yet I ask only nineteen thousand dollars. If you buy it, and I do not press you, for practically it is almost sold, you will never regret it.'

There was a silence. For the first time they both looked at the pastel which hung alone, against the neutral cartridge paper of the wall. Moray knew it well, it was recorded in the book and it was indeed a lovely thing – an interior, full of light and colour, pinks, greys and greens. The subject too, was exactly to his taste: a conversation piece, Madame Melo and her little daughter in the salon of the actress's house.

A surge of possessive craving tightened his throat. He must have it, he must, to hang opposite his Sisley. It was a shocking price, of course, but he could well afford it, he was rich, far richer even than the good Leuschner had computed, having of course no access to that little black book, locked in the safe, with its fascinating rows of ciphers. And why, after all those years of sterile work and marital strife, should he not have everything he wanted? That snug profit he had recently made in Royal Dutch could not be put to better use. He wrote the cheque, shook hands with Leuschner and went off in triumph, with the pastel carefully tucked beneath his arm. Back at his villa, before Arturo announced lunch, he had time to hang it. Perfect … perfect … he exulted, standing back. He hoped Frida von Altishofer would admire it.

He had invited her for five o'clock and, as punctuality was to her an expression of good manners, at that hour precisely she arrived – not however as was customary, in her battered little cream-coloured Dauphine, but on foot. Actually her barracks of a house, the Schloss Seeburg, stood on the opposite shore of the lake, two kilometres across, and as she came into the drawing-room he reproached her for taking the boat, holding both her hands. It was a warm afternoon and the hill path to his villa was steep; he could have sent Arturo to fetch her.

‘I don't mind the little ferry.' She smiled. ‘As you were so kindly driving me I thought not to bother with my car.'

Her English, though stylised, was perfectly good, with just a faint, and indeed attractive, over-accentuation of certain syllables.

‘Well, now you shall have tea. I have ordered it.' He pressed the bell. ‘We'll get nothing but watery vermouth at the party.'

‘You are most thoughtful.' She sat down gracefully, removing her gloves; she had strong supple Sogers, the nails polished but unvarnished. ‘I hope you won't be too bored at the Kunsthaus.'

While Arturo wheeled in the trolley and, with bows that were almost genuflections, served the tea, Moray studied her. In her youth she must have been very beautiful. The structure of her facial bones was perfect. Even now at forty-five, or six … well, perhaps even forty-seven, although her hair was greying and her skin beginning to show the faint crenellations and brownish stigmata of her years, she remained an attractive woman, with the upright striding figure of a believer in fresh air and exercise. Her eyes were her most remarkable feature, the pupils of a dark tawny yellowish green shot with black specks. ‘They are cat's eyes.' She had smiled once when he ventured a compliment. ‘But I do not scratch … or seldom only.'

Yes, he reflected sympathetically, she had been through a lot, yet never spoke of it. She was horribly hard up and had not many clothes but those she possessed were good and she wore them with style. When they went walking together she usually appeared in a faded costume of russet brown, a rakish
bersagliere
hat, white knitted stockings and strong handsewn brogues of faded brown. Today she had on a simple but well cut fawn suit, shoes of the same shade, as were her gloves, and she was bareheaded. Taste, distinction, and perfect breeding were evident in every look and gesture – no need to tell himself again, she was a cultured woman of the highest class.

‘Always what delicious tea you give me.'

‘It's Twining's,' he explained. ‘I had it specially blended for the hard Schwansee water.'

She shook her head, half reproachfully.

‘Really … you think of everything.' She paused. ‘Yet how wonderful to be able to give effect to all one's wishes.'

A considerable silence followed while they savoured the hard-water tea, then suddenly, an upward glance arrested, she exclaimed:

‘My dear friend … you have bought it!'

She had seen the Vuillard at last and rising, excitedly, though still skilfully, retaining cup and saucer, she moved across the room to inspect it.

‘It is lovely … lovely! And looks so much better here than in the gallery. Oh, that so delightful child, on the little stool. I only hope Leuschner did not rob you.'

He stood beside her and together, in silence, they admired the pastel. She had the good taste not to over-praise, but as they turned away, looking around her at the mellow eighteenth-century furniture, the soft grey carpet and the Louis XVI tapestry chairs, at his paintings, his
Pont Aven
Gauguin, signed and dated, above the Tang figures on the Georgian mantel, the wonderful Degas nude on the opposite wall, the early Utrillo and the Sisley landscape, his richly subdued Bonnard, the deliciously maternal Mary Cassat, and now the Vuillard, she murmured:

‘I adore your room. Here you can spend your life in the celebration of beautiful things. And better still when you have earned them.'

‘I think I am entitled to them.' He spoke modestly. ‘As a young man, in Scotland, I had little enough. Indeed, then I was miserably poor.'

It was a mistake. Once he had spoken the words he regretted them. Had be not been warned never to look back, only forward, forward, forward. Hastily he said:

‘But you … until the war, you always lived …' he fumbled slightly, ‘… in state.'

‘Yes, we had nice things,' she answered mildly.

Again there was silence. The half-smiling reserve she had given to the remark was truly heroic. She was the widow of the Baron von Altishofer, who came of an old Jewish family that had acquired immense wealth from state tobacco concessions in the previous century, with possessions ranging from a vast estate in Bavaria to a hunting lodge in Slovakia. He had been shot during the first six months of the war and, although she was not of his faith, she had spent the next three years in a concentration camp at Lensbach, On her eventual release, she had crossed the Swiss border. All that remained to her was the lakeside house, the Seeburg, and there, though practically penniless, she had striven courageously to rebuild her life. She began by breeding rare Weimaraner dogs. Then, while the ignominy of an ordinary pensionnat was naturally unthinkable, friends – and she had many – came to stay and to enjoy, as paying guests, the spaciousness of the big Germanic schloss and the huge overgrown garden. Indeed, a very exclusive little society had now developed round the Seeburg, of which she herself was the centre. What fun to restore the fine old place, fill it with furniture of the period, replant the garden, recondition the statuary. Had she hinted? Never, never … it was his own thought, a flight of fancy. Self-consciously, rather abruptly, he looked at his watch.

‘I think we should be going, if you are ready.'

He had decided to take her to the party in full fig: Arturo wore his best blue uniform, a lighter shade than navy, and they went in the big car. Since this was the only Rolls in Melsburg its appearance always made something of a spectacle.

Seated beside her, as they glided off, his sleeve touching hers on the cushioned armrest, he was in an expansive mood. Although his marriage had been a catastrophic failure he had, since his retirement, seriously considered the prospect of – in Wilenski's vulgar phrase –
having another go.
During the eighteen months they had been neighbours their friendship had developed to such an extent as to induce gradually the idea of a closer companionship. Yet his mind had hitherto dwelt on young and tender images. Frida von Altishofer was not young, in bed she would not prove so succulent as he might wish, and as a man in whom the intensive demands of his late wife had induced a prostatic hypertrophy, he now had needs that should, if only for reasons of health, be satisfied. Nevertheless, Frida was a strong and vital woman with deep though conceded feelings, who might be capable of unsuspected passion. Such, he knew from his medical training, was often the case with women who had passed the menopause. Certainly, in all other respects she would make the most admirable aristocratic wife.