The Uncanny, page 17
Harper’s cup rattled against her saucer as she set them down on the table. She seized her pipe and began once more to tamp it furiously. But she knew her friend could not be rushed.
Rose Ponsonby poured herself just another splash of tea. Gave it a speculative taste. Said: “Ah!” Then: “Robert Hughes was at several of those readings, you know.”
Harper stopped tamping her pipe. Stopped casting anxious glances here and there. She gave all her attention to the other woman, to the slack, sagging face in the yellow light of the fringed lantern above them.
“Robert Hughes,” Harper said slowly. “The author of ‘Black Annie’?”
“Well, yes, dear, you wanted to know about the ‘Young William’ ballad, didn’t you? It was Hughes who brought Monty the illuminated manuscript on which the ballad was based. A very nice young chap he was too, Monty says. And even at the time, of course, not without literary ambitions of his own. Anyway, this illuminated manuscript. It was done by one of the monks at Belham Abbey in Buckinghamshire apparently, and had somehow found its way to Germany after the Dissolution of the monasteries. A friend of Hughes’s had only recently rediscovered it there and brought it back to England and so Hughes showed it to Monty, who was, of course, one of the great medieval scholars of his age. Oh, Monty can still be very cross on the subject of the Dissolution, let me tell you. Especially in regards to the frightful carelessness about the books, you see. Aside from the most cursory listing by Leland, King Henry took absolutely no care whatsoever to preserve the monastery books! Isn’t that awful? All those lovely illustrated manuscripts that the dear monks took such pains over—lost, just lost. It upsets Monty quite terribly; I don’t even like to mention it in front of him.”
“No doubt,” Harper murmured, chewing her pipestem with great vigor. “And so you say Hughes somehow came into possession of this illuminated manuscript. And gave it to James. And James based a ghost story on it?”
“Oh, no, no, no, no!” cried Rose Ponsonby in her high screak. “Mr. Hughes based his dear little ghost story on it. That one you mentioned: ‘Black Annie.’ That was inspired by the medieval manuscript. All Monty did was translate the manuscript itself. From the Latin, you know. He had thought to publish his translation in the Cambridge Antiquary Society Publication, but doubts about its provenance prevented him. And, of course, he considered it far too shocking for his Western Railway guide to the abbeys. So it was never published at all.”
Harper had now leaned so far to the edge of her sewing chair that she was in danger of slipping off. She peered eagerly through her glasses at Rose Ponsonby. “Rose. My love. What happened to this manuscript? The one written by the dear monk and so forth. The one from Belham Abbey.”
“Yes,” said Rose, wistfully lifting her chin. “It was put in the British Museum.”
“Ah.”
“And destroyed, I’m afraid, on May tenth, 1941. German bombs, you know. It was burned along with two hundred and fifty thousand other books. A terrible loss.”
Harper felt her throat going dry. “Yes. No doubt. And what about James’s translation?”
“Oh, that was in the library at Kings.”
“But …”
“But it was stolen, apparently, some twenty years ago.”
“I see.” Harper swallowed—which was getting to be hard work. She reached under her spectacles, rubbed her eyes. “So—as I understand it—this manuscript from Belham Abbey no longer exists. There is now no copy of either the original or of James’s translation.”
“Well, except for this one, of course,” said Rose Ponsonby. And she leaned forward—three cats falling from her to plop onto the carpet. She tugged a manila envelope out from under a stack of books by her feet. Lifted it. And presented it to Harper across the tea table.
Harper seized it with a trembling hand. “This is a copy of James’s translation?”
“Well, no, not exactly,” said Rose. “Monty was kind enough to dictate this to me some time ago when I expressed an interest in it during one of our conversations. But you can be sure I wrote it all down quite faithfully.”
Harper closed one eye, examined her friend. “The ghost of M. R. James dictated this to you.”
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Rose Ponsonby. “His memory is quite, quite prodigious, you know. And anyway,” she added with a naughty little hoist of her shoulders, “I checked it against the original, many years ago at Kings, before the manuscript was stolen. And what do you think? It was exactly right. Why, it was absolutely word for word.”
Had Harper been less excited, she would probably have been more alert to the danger she already knew was pressing in around her. But as tense as she’d been, as wary, every other thought was now pushed aside by the realization of what she had in her possession: the source; the last ghost story. Secreted in a hidden pouch within her cape was the translation of the document she believed had inspired ‘Black Annie,” The Alchemist’s Castle,’ the ballad of ‘Young William,’ and the Rhinehart triptych itself. This, she believed, was what Iago had discovered twenty years ago, what had started him on the triptych’s trail. And now, all at once, it had simply been placed into her hands. She could think of nothing else but getting home to read it.
Hunched against the night chill, she trundled down the short path in front of Rose Ponsonby’s dainty little house. A cortege of cats danced attendance on her as far as the picket gate. Rose waved from the doorway. Then the cats disbanded and Rose Ponsonby withdrew. The door closed and Harper was alone on the Portobello Road.
Her head bent in contemplation, her hat pulled low across her brows, her stick rapping the pavement, she walked beside the empty, narrow street. A grim brick housing estate hulked in the shadows to one side of her, a row of modest houses stood on the other. A streetlamp passed over her head. She passed through its glow—and then out of it into darkness.
And a cab pulled up slowly behind her.
If she had been less excited, if she had been more alert, she would have noticed. That it had been following her, moving along with her. That it sidled up to her now only as she stepped into an all-but-deserted stretch of shuttered antique shops and abandoned stores.
As it was, she was brought out of her mediation when the beams of the taxi’s headlamps entered her peripheral vision. Turning to discover the cab, she smiled at her luck and raised her hand to hail it.
The cab moved to the curb alongside her and stopped. The front window came down. Harper leaned into it. The driver, on the other side of the car, tilted back so that his face was obscured by the night.
“World’s End,” Harper said.
“Absolutely right, darling,” said the driver.
She climbed into the back, settled into the seat. Set the tip of her stick against the floor between her feet, rested both her hands atop the carved dragon’s head, rested her chin upon her knuckles. And she sank deep into thought again as the cab pulled away.
Her thought was so deep, in fact, that it was many minutes before she realized what was happening. By that time the taxi had strayed from any possible route into her neighborhood. Instead, through a series of sharp jolts and turns, it had veered off into the backstreets of Kensington. And Harper, furiously discussing with herself the long and complex history of Anglo-German cultural exchanges—from the Celtic migrations to the dropping of bombs on the British Museum—glanced up in complete astonishment to find herself passing eastward under the Royal Albert Hall.
She straightened. Her eyes went quickly to the plaque fastened on the seat in front of her: The number of this cab is 331. Suddenly more frightened than she had been since she could well remember, she lifted her gaze directly to the rearview mirror.
And she saw the burning malice of the driver’s reflected stare. Saw his scarred mouth twisted into a grin of jeering bitterness and cruelty.
Harper could only gape another long moment at that face—the face of the man who had attacked her outside The Sign of the Crane.
The taxi’s doors and windows—as she discovered a moment later—were all securely locked.
6
Not far away, on Waterloo Bridge, went Richard Storm, his heart leaden. The city; the city—the Big Smoke, the gray lady, London—so beautiful all around him: it was tearing him apart. Look, look at it! he thought. The dome of St. Paul’s blossoming into a haze of spotlight to the east. A flock of birds wheeling and diving in perfect harmony around it, brushing their balletic patterns on the dew of night. The Houses of Parliament at his other shoulder—the clock tower, finials, spires and fletch spearing and doodling on the dark. And the bridges launching themselves over the river. And the lights hung like bunting above the riverside walk. The ships, towers, domes, theaters and temples—all this crushed him as he barged south across the water, his hands in his trenchcoat pockets, his soul racked with longing.
Because he wanted to be here a lifetime and he didn’t have a lifetime left. Because he wanted to be here with Sophia, wanted the churches and the bridges and the spires to be the backdrop for their kisses and intimate conversations. And he couldn’t even run the movie of it in his mind because it was so impossible, because the impossibility hurt too much. He kicked the pavement as he went, butted the cold, damp air. He had been free! he kept telling himself. He had been out of it. He had cut himself loose from life and desire. He’d been Buddha. He’d been Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca. The Goodbye Guy. He had been ready to go. Now this.
Trolls, he thought. That’s what it was. Religious people believed God ran the world. Atheists figured it was indifferent nature. But it was trolls. Sadistic little homunculi in leather jackets with lots of zippers. Hiding behind the scrim of being. Working the machinery to maximize human suffering for their own amusement. Thumbing their noses, wagging their puds. He could almost hear them laughing at him.
Yeah, and they were good, sweetheart. They were real good at their jobs. When he’d crossed the bridge, when he reached the southern embankment, when he saw Sophia there—the exquisite arrow of pain that went through him: it was a masterpiece of natural cruelty. Fucking trolls.
She was leaning against the stone balustrade, under a string of lights. Looking quietly down at the muddy banks of the Thames. She straightened and turned as he approached her. Her cheeks were pink with cold above the lifted collar of her navy coat. A kiss-me curl was blowing from beneath the silken kerchief on her hair. She was as he’d seen her first, cool and superior. Her stance relaxed but straight. The line of her mouth firm, faintly ironic, faintly smiling. A ball of white vapor broke from his lips as the full effect struck him.
He reached her. They stood at a loss for words. Then she extended a small, delicate hand and shook his briskly. “Thank you for coming, Mr. Storm,” she said.
They walked in silence together above the Thames. The gulls crying, sailing, landing. The efficient, imperial skyline of Whitehall across the way. The jagged concrete wedges of the theater complex hanging over them. Storm’s mind raced, searching for something to say. But he had only one thing to say and he couldn’t bring himself to say it. He could no more speak of his illness to her than a married man, feeling as he did, could have mentioned his wife; it would have killed the illusion of possibility.
So they strolled and he stole glances at her, watching her organize her thoughts. Then, finally, she stopped. He stopped. She looked up at him.
“I’m afraid …” she said. And all at once, she started laughing.
Bewildered, Storm smiled, waited.
She tried again. “I’m afraid I …” She covered her mouth with her hand. Her shoulders shook. She fought the laughter off. “I’m afraid I …” But it broke out again, high, musical peals. She waved quickly at the air as if to erase them. “I’m afraid …” She was overcome with laughter. She veered away from him, staggered towards the balustrade. Storm, still puzzled, still smiling dopily, scratched his head. Sophia hugged herself, giggling. Glanced her apologies at him but was laughing too hard to speak. She hid her face behind her arms, struggled to compose herself again. Lowered her arms. Said, “I’m afraid I’ve made rather a bad first impression …” But that was as far as she got. The laughter crippled her. She fell back against the balustrade, slapped the top of it. Her whole body quaked as she laughed.
Storm went on grinning blankly, went on waiting. Watched her laughing, his hands in his trenchcoat pockets. Life, sex, money, springtime, his own skin—he had never loved anything so much. He had never really even understood that it could happen. Like this, like a song. Like a really bad, clichéd song. One of those songs that went: I never kneeeeew—that love could be so truuuuue—until I met yoooooou … That kind of thing. And what was worse—what was potentially disastrous—was that if she went on leaning there, against the balustrade, against the background of the city, went on leaning there, laughing, red-cheeked, he was actually going to start singing that song, or one very much like it, right there, right then, out loud. Oh, that would be a bad, bad thing, he knew. But the urge was strong upon him, almost irresistible. And he suddenly realized: here he was, Richard Storm, of Hollywood, of America, of the twentieth century’s end, of the planet Earth—and there was poverty and race hatred and terrorism and those horrible nose rings girls were wearing and Western culture was probably in free fall and people said words like fart on network television—and here he was, standing in his own sad body—his own rapidly decaying body—and there was a song in his heart!
Good Christ, if he didn’t kiss this woman soon, he was going to explode.
“Oh!” said Sophia Endering finally—finally exhausted, finally tapped out. Holding her cheeks between her palms, rocking her head wearily. “Oh. I don’t know why every time I’m around you I’m reduced to such absolute imbecility!” She wiped her eyes. She stared at her feet, at the concrete under her feet. She shivered. The laughter had all blown out of her. “The very first time I saw you I spilled my wine all over the place. And the next thing you know I’m jumping off a balcony with a belt around my neck. And then I punch you, and then I’m in hospital, crying like a baby. And now I’m laughing like a complete idiot. A bad impression! You must think I’m stark, staring mad.”
She raised her face to his for an answer, but he said nothing; he could think of no verbal equivalent to lifting her in his arms and carrying her away to a castle in the clouds.
“But you see, the thing of it is,” she went on helplessly, “that that’s exactly why …” She narrowed her eyes, trying to catch the idea, phrase it. “That’s exactly why I wanted to talk to you, I think. To see you. So badly. Really. Because everyone else—yah?—well, I don’t know how to put it without sounding terribly egotistical, but everyone else thinks … I don’t do those sorts of things. Everyone else thinks I’ve got everything under complete control. All the time. And when I lose control, when I do do something irrational, everyone just ignores it. So it’s as if I hadn’t done it at all. And now here you are, and you must think at this point that I never do anything else. You must think: Oh yes, Sophia Endering, she’s that absolutely insane girl who’s always throwing herself off balconies and so forth. Crazy old Sophia, you must think—I don’t know what you must think of me, actually. But here you are, you know? And there you were in hospital. And you said … you liked me …” She averted her eyes, embarrassed. “I know it’s absurd—it sounds absurd even to me as I say it—but you said you liked me and it just seems rather remarkable to me at this point that you should. That anyone should.” She drew a long breath of the damp air, held it; braced herself. “And so I wanted to see you. To talk to you. It’s all got so confusing that I wanted to explain things to somebody who won’t … hate me for them afterwards. Is that … is that all right? Do you mind?” Storm started singing.
“Yooooou dooooo something to meeeee,” he sang, “something that simply mystifiiiies meee.”
Sophia’s jaw dropped. She stared at him.
“Tell meeee why should it beeeee,” sang Storm. “You have the power to hypnotiiiiize meeeee. Let meeeeee live ’neath your spell. Do do that voodoo that you do so well. ’Cause yoooou. Doooo. Something to meeee—that noooobody else can dooo. ’Cept you,” he added as a jazzy little flourish of his own and then brought it on home with, “That noooobody else can doooo.”
“I … Well … I …” said Sophia. And then she smiled at him.
Storm stepped forward, took her by the shoulders, and kissed her.
He hadn’t been in the movie business for nothing.
“Look, I’m no good at sex,” Sophia said. “I suppose that’s very important to you, being a man and everything.”
Sex? Storm thought. Sex? Here they were. Here they actually were, walking back across Waterloo Bridge. With St. Paul’s behind her, and the wheeling birds and the backdrop of London. And her eyes were hectic with his kisses, and he could feel her body tense and then yield every time he took her to him, and her face was turned up to his, confused and appealing.
“Couldn’t I just look at you for now?” he said. “Like that, against the dome, with those birds?”
She glanced over at them vaguely. “Dome?” Which presented her cheek to him, so he brushed it with his lips. “It’s just …” She turned back, bringing her lips to his. She held him off gently, her fingertips on his face. So he kissed her fingertips. “It’s just that people think … Men are always … There are just all these things I have to tell someone. About me. I have to …”
He gathered her up again, felt her tense again, yield again, and kissed her a long time, deeply. He was having an insight. An erection and an insight, both profound. No, no, his insight was saying, no, no. Not trolls. You idiot. How could you ever have thought it was trolls? This incredible, this resplendent city; this cathedral in the mists of night; this bracing winter breeze, those stars; this flesh, this flesh—this vehicle for bringing two souls together at the mouth, at the loins: it’s the work of fucking Santa Claus, Jackson! Even Death; even Death was sweet in that it made a moment out of this, which was too fabulous to last for more. That Claus, what a man, you could count on him to get the whole thing perfect.
