Authors: David Roberts
He was distracted by someone calling his name. He turned to see a flaxen-haired man of his own age. Edward’s polite smile left his face as he recognized one of his least favourite people, one David Griffiths-Jones. He was Welsh but that in itself would not have prejudiced him in Edward’s eyes. There was much more: he was a published poet much admired by left-wing critics; he was a senior figure in the Communist Party and was well known in Spain as a ruthless organizer and committed Stalinist. Worst of all, he had been Verity’s first lover and, though he had abandoned her when it had suited him, Edward still feared his malign influence over her.
‘Corinth! Still slumming, I see. Do you think we workers at the coal face have a certain glamour or is it mere inverted snobbery? I certainly never expected to see you here. Do you know our André? But, of course, I am being stupid. Verity must have brought you. Where is she? Ah! I think I see her hat. So you two are still . . . friends?’
‘Still friends, yes. How is it in Spain? I gather Madrid is shortly to fall to the rebels.’
‘The reports of Madrid’s imminent demise are, I am pleased to say, an exaggeration. Comrades from all over the world have rallied to her defence. The legitimate government will prevail despite the cretinous behaviour of the so-called democracies. Thank goodness for Comrade Stalin!’
David was being disingenuous as usual. There was no chance of Madrid withstanding General Franco’s onslaught for very much longer. Moreover, the ramshackle alliance of anarchists and left-wing parties which had made up the Popular Front – the elected government of Spain before the civil war – could never be glued back together. Like Humpty Dumpty, that alliance was shattered beyond repair. If, by some miracle, Franco failed to win the war, a Communist regime would seize control of the country, taking its orders direct from Moscow. This was the reality and the reason neither France nor Britain would come out in support of either side.
‘Have you met my friend Guy, by the way? He was up at Trinity with you, or was he a year or two after your time?’
‘Guy!’ Edward said, grasping the hand of a man with blue eyes and tight wavy hair. He had a boyish, healthy look and a charming smile that made Edward smile back but his fingernails, Edward noted, were dirty and badly bitten and, at a second glance, he wondered if his high colour was not fuelled by alcohol.
‘Trinity and, before Cambridge, we were inky boys at Eton together, though we were not in the same house,’ Guy cut in. ‘But our paths haven’t crossed since we came down from the University. I don’t remember you being a Marxist, Corinth?’
‘No, certainly not. As David says, I am here with a girl, Verity Browne. Do you know her?’
‘We all know Verity,’ Guy said smoothly. Seeing Edward’s face fall, he added, ‘But don’t worry, Corinth. Don’t you remember? Even at Cambridge my sexual preferences did not incline towards the female of the species.’
Edward was taken aback. He did remember now that Guy Baron was spoken of as ‘one of those’ but he never expected him to admit it so openly. He was spared from having to answer by Verity’s reappearance. She had in tow a black-haired, black-eyed young man – in his late twenties or early thirties, Edward guessed – with an engaging grin and the dishevelled air of the artist. His shirt – vaguely military in style – was half in and half out of his black trousers and torn at the elbow. He was deeply tanned. Edward was immediately alarmed. True, Verity had talked about a girlfriend but this young man looked as though he might not attach much value to the idea of monogamy.
‘This is André, only we call him “Bandi”. Don’t you think he’s the most wonderful photographer? Oh, Bandi, this is Lord Edward Corinth.’
The two men shook hands. ‘I haven’t yet had a chance of looking at your photographs except the ones just behind me here. The crush, don’t y’know, but I am very impressed. Where did you take this one of the falling soldier? It’s an extraordinary image.’
‘Outside Madrid,’ André answered laconically.
‘Amid so much horror,’ Edward tried again, ‘do you not want to do something – apart from taking photographs, I mean?’
‘Do something?’ the young man repeated in his complicated accent, a ripe mixture of several Continental languages. ‘What do you suggest I do?’
‘I am sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude but, if you see a child in pain, don’t you want to do more than take a photograph?’ Edward knew he was being gauche but he could not stop himself. The photographer seemed too good to be true. He needed taking down a peg or two. ‘Don’t you want to intervene?’
André was silent for a moment. Then he said, ‘I do intervene. These photographs,’ he waved his hand at the wall, ‘they “intervene”. They say that here is pain and suffering. The innocent always suffer. Even you must have noticed,’ he added with studied insolence. ‘But why should I bother . . . bah!’
He turned away and was soon engrossed in conversation with Guy Baron. Verity looked at Edward in amazement. ‘What did you do that for? I thought the one thing you were was polite but I see I was wrong.’
Before he could defend himself, she had flounced off. Edward’s heart sank. What had possessed him? They were amazing photographs and all he had needed to do was say so. Instead he had accused the photographer of being a heartless voyeur. It was inexcusable and he ought to apologize. He sighed. It was going to be one of those evenings when he could do nothing right. He had visualized a romantic dinner at Gennaro’s with the girl he loved and then perhaps, if he were lucky, back to bed. Now she would leave for Spain and there would be bad blood between them. He must do something to put matters right.
He looked around wildly for something he might do and found himself looking into the green eyes of a flame-haired girl who was offering him a cigarette and laughing. ‘I guess you need this.’ She had a slight American accent and Edward was immediately charmed. ‘Bandi can be a mite touchy about his art.’
‘Bandi? Oh, you mean Kavan.’
‘Yes, André. Some of us call him Bandi. Don’t ask me why.’
Edward was always attracted to redheads and this one with her monkey face and freckles, her slightly twisted smile and the wicked gleam in her eye was – as black-haired Verity had forecast – hard to resist.
‘Can photography be an art?’ he asked in genuine surprise.
‘Oh, don’t let’s get into that. It’s true a few years ago Bandi was just another news photographer but things have changed since his stuff started appearing in
Life
. But you have to admit, they are good.’
‘I haven’t seen much of them yet but, as I tried to tell him, the ones I have seen are remarkable. I wonder, however, if my response is adequate? That’s why I asked you if they were art. It might alter how I feel about them.’
‘
How
do you feel about them?’
‘I suppose I want better captions.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning when I look at these pictures I feel sympathy and, in a general way, I would like to do something about the pain they expose – heal the wounded, stop the bombs and soothe the frightened child – but I know, after a good dinner tonight, I will hardly remember them. Only if Verity talks about her experiences in Spain and I argue with her will these photographs start to be important to me. Only with words to back them up will these images mean something. I’m sorry, I’m being pompous. Verity would have stopped me ages ago.’
‘Someone said that a photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you, the less you know.’
‘Yes, that’s good. I’m not sure what it means, but it feels right. You must be Gerda Meyer? Verity told me about you. To be accurate, she told me I wasn’t to fall for you but you are going to have to help by not looking at me like that.’
Gerda turned away her head. ‘Sorry! Was I staring? I suppose I was surprised. From what Verity told me, I was expecting to see a silly-ass, music-hall aristocrat with nothing in his face but a monocle.’
Edward found himself laughing again. ‘Perhaps it was unwise of Verity to talk to each of us about the other. It leads to . . . expectations. Let’s complete the introductions though. Perhaps you mistake me for someone else. I’m Edward Corinth.’ They shook hands solemnly. ‘You were in Spain with Verity? At the siege of Toledo?’
‘With Bandi, really. We’re lovers – at least some of the time.’ She laughed. ‘Have I shocked you?’
Edward shook his head. ‘You are a photographer too, aren’t you?’
‘
I
think so but Bandi can be rather dismissive. You must know from Verity how difficult it is being a woman and a war reporter. Do you want to see some of my photographs? No one else does. They’re over there in the corner.’
‘Of course. I would like that very much.’
He followed Gerda across the room. A sequence of about thirty photographs of what was clearly a Spanish village devastated by war met his gaze.
‘Not cheerful, I’m afraid, but it is necessary to tell the truth especially the truth no one wants to hear.’
Edward was transfixed. Beneath photographs of jubilant troops at Barcelona’s train station captioned ‘Off to fight the Insurgents at the Aragon Front’ were pictures of what looked like a whole village in flight – men, women and children, most on donkeys but some in or on ramshackle vehicles, all with that bewildered look of refugees turned out of their homes by the brutal hand of war. The contrast seemed to say it all. How war shatters illusions, destroys lives and brings – not much-vaunted freedom – but despair.
‘It was a place called Cerro Muriano. I took them a few months ago. It makes one sick to the stomach, doesn’t it?’
’I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say. They are magnificent. They wrench at your heart.’
‘There are many worse scenes,’ she said grimly. ‘Dead bodies and so much grief but I didn’t think them suitable for a fashionable London art gallery.’
‘And for people like me to gawp at,’ he said looking at her.
‘That too,’ she agreed.
Edward turned back to the black-and-white images on the wall and saw a group photograph of soldiers – some arm in arm – standing on or leaning against an armoured vehicle. ‘Isn’t that David?’ he said suddenly.
‘David Griffiths-Jones? Yes, of course, you know him, don’t you? He’s very good-looking, don’t you think?’
Edward looked at her suspiciously. He thought he might be being teased. He was. He smiled. ‘Yes, very.’
‘But you don’t like him?’
‘No, I don’t like him’ he agreed. ‘I expect he sees this whole exhibition in terms not of art but propaganda. You have to admit, powerful as they are, these photographs provide a one-sided view of the war. There’s no room here for any atrocities carried out by Republican troops.’
‘We can’t be on both sides of the fence. My pictures aren’t faked if that’s what you’re getting at.’
She sounded angry but Edward was imperturbable. He liked this girl but he did not like the feeling that he was being manipulated. Perhaps it was the presence of Griffiths-Jones, so pleased with himself, which made the hair on the back of his head stand up. ‘I didn’t say they were. I simply said that there are other atrocities which have not been photographed.’
‘It’s not my job to be “balanced” or “fair”,’ Gerda said, going red about the ears. ‘I just take photographs of what I see.’
She spoke fiercely and Edward was quick to apologize.
‘Forgive me. It’s just what I said. Give me the context and I’ll read these images and make sense of them. I admire your photographs and the courage it took to get them but in this place, surrounded by so many Comrades, I feel as if I am being told what to think and feel.’
He waited for her to stalk off or slap his face and watched as she thought about doing both of these things but then her irrepressible smile lit up her face.
‘I can see why Verity finds you so irritating but it’s probably why she respects you. You just refuse to toe the Party line, don’t you?’
Edward did not answer but turned once more to the photographs.
‘And that face. I know it . . . Who is that?’
‘You’ve just been talking to him – Guy Baron.’
‘Of course! How stupid of me. He was fighting in Spain?’
‘No. He was just over for a few days “observing” but he rather fancied himself in fighting gear. I gave him a gun to hold and took his photograph. He was frightfully pleased.’
‘So David’s a friend of yours?’ he said.
‘Not really. He doesn’t have “friends”, you know – just comrades. Anyway, he’s a bit ruthless for me. There was this pal of mine – an English writer. He wasn’t very good at fighting. In fact they called him a coward. He wanted to leave the front line. David had a long talk with him and persuaded him to go back to the fighting. Secretly, he arranged for him to go to a place where he would be certain to be killed.’
Edward looked at the girl with horror and then said slowly, ‘I can believe it.’
They gazed at each other in silence for a moment and there was an understanding.
Verity came through the mob. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Edward? I’ve asked David and Guy to eat with us tonight. Oh, I see you’ve made friends with Gerda. How do you like him? He’s not bad for an aristo, is he?’
Edward hated Verity when she was like this, making smart remarks in bad taste, but realized she was still angry with him for being rude to André. He caught a glance from Gerda and stifled his angry retort. ‘Not at all. Why don’t you and André come too?’ he asked her. ‘Or are you being wined and dined by the gallery?’
‘I’m sure we’d love to come. I’ll just ask Bandi. Won’t be a moment.’
She went off to find him. Verity said in a loud whisper as soon as her back was turned, ‘I wish you hadn’t asked her. André’s all right but she’s a nothing.’
‘Verity! I’m ashamed of you. She’s not a nothing. She’s a highly talented photographer. Have you looked at these?’
‘And you lust after her.’
‘I say!’
‘Well, that’s why you invited her. Admit it. She’s not . . . faithful to André . . . leads him a merry dance.’ She was suddenly contrite. ‘I shouldn’t have said she was a nothing. She is a very good photographer and brave . . . much braver than me. She says she has to be
near
. . . always nearer to get the photograph that tells the truth. She’s been almost killed dozens of times. But I still don’t like her.’