The Last Word Page 11

  Today, once she’d settled in, Harry thought it a good idea for Alice to spend time with Liana. With her ferocious but enthusiastic mind focused on food, furniture and the mood of her man, Liana would set a good example to the young woman.

  ‘Liana, darling, tell me, what do you think of my girl?’ whispered Harry, when, later that morning for a moment, he was alone with the older woman. ‘Should I send her packing?’

  ‘Seeing her bright face has cheered me up. She is a little haughty, as you said, but fresh and delicate. I loved her from the moment she showed taste. She said a wonderful thing. “Liana, this is definitely a feminine house.” She so reminds me of myself before I had hangovers and met Mamoon that she could be my daughter. Is she a model?’

  ‘People used to stop her on the street and tell her to go do it. So she was, briefly. But she’s too quiet to show her ass for money.’

  ‘She’s so skinny I can practically see through her. And her hair, what an extraordinary colour.’

  ‘It’s natural.’

  ‘Did I say it wasn’t? Platinum blonde, I suppose you’d call it. It’s almost white.’

  ‘Please, Liana, don’t give her any clothes. Why are you giving them away?’

  ‘What point is there to them, down here? Women only wear beautiful clothes so that men will want to remove them.’

  Harry said, ‘Poor Alice, she was almost shaking this morning, Liana, in terror of you.’

  She clutched his arm. ‘Of me? Never say that! I only want to scare Mamoon – and you, of course. Why?’

  ‘She’s afraid. Your depth of experience and sophistication was intimidating.’

  ‘The darling child, I must help and guide her. She lights this house up.’

  Alice appeared. Liana shouted and waved, the dogs rushed to the car, and Liana whisked Alice into town to shop for lunch. Afterwards, Liana showed her the kitchen, and cooked with her, the two of them drinking a bottle of wine, while Liana talked continuously. Soon Liana was calling Alice her ‘pretty long-lost daughter’, and dragging her off with the dogs for a tour of the house, barns and grounds, and then of her clothes and shoes; these things, being of an Italian vintage, interested Alice.

  When an older woman met a younger one and liked her, she gave her clothes. This cemented something between them, a hierarchy perhaps, as well as understanding. Liana also gave Alice Indian and Italian jewellery, so much so that when Harry next ran into Alice in the kitchen, he did a double take because Alice – who at the station had been wearing a simple orange jacket, denim shorts and strappy shoes – now resembled, as she jingle-jangled about the house, an actress from a Bollywood film. On closer examination Harry saw that Liana had in fact fashioned Alice into a younger version of herself.

  Liana said, ‘What a creative girl your Alice is. She took one look at this dying place and threw out a dozen good ideas about how to buck it up. I will speak to my agent. We could set a TV series here. I see how you look at me as if I were a vulgarian. But we are conspiring together to get the house earning its living. We will fill it with young artists.’

  ‘How young?’

  ‘Do not risk your life by telling Mamoon this. He is already scorching in his room because lunch is delayed. But, thanks to Alice, there is asparagus, figs, red snapper, ice cream and the best mozzarella in the world – burrata – sent by my sister. Oh, but I am tearing my hair out with fear that he might be rude to her. Lately he’s been wild, because of you.’

  When Harry asked her if she’d prepared Mamoon, as promised, for Alice, she was unconvincing. ‘Well, I did some ground work.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I insisted that although she’d never heard of Mamoon the writer, she would come to think highly of him, as she did of the great designers.’

  He shivered. ‘You compared them?’

  ‘It was the context.’

  ‘What if he says something mad to her?’

  ‘I’ve warned him not to start talking about his dream. Hurry now, bring the minotaur before he blows up in rage.’

  Thirteen

  It was the middle of the afternoon when Harry crossed the yard to Mamoon’s room to fetch the sequestered old man, who was still bent over his stick. After the incident on the tennis court, Mamoon’s doctor had diagnosed a herniated disc rather than a pulled muscle, and advised Mamoon to have an operation, not that he could guarantee that it would work at the old man’s age. While Mamoon discussed his dilemma at length, he gobbled handfuls of painkillers and, according to Liana, had become more ornery and truculent than usual over what he saw as a future of helplessness and decrepitude.

  ‘Another morning of nothing,’ he said as Harry brought him into the kitchen and led him to his chair. Julia bustled over with his favourite sparkling water without ice.

  Alice went to him, sat down, took his hand, and looked into his eyes. ‘Thank you for having me here,’ she said. ‘What a lovely place.’

  ‘My dear, we’ve been waiting for you,’ he said. ‘Tell me, how is the world of fashion?’

  ‘It’s in not bad shape, thank you.’

  ‘Could you explain what the point of it is?’

  ‘Sorry?’ She shook her head in disbelief. ‘It’s business. We buy and sell and stop people getting cold. What is not the point of it?’

  ‘Don’t think news of you hasn’t reached me already,’ said Mamoon, looking her over. ‘Liana here told me you compared me to a tailor.’

  ‘Which tailor?’

  A vein, which ran from Mamoon’s hairline to his brow, was throbbing. ‘A tailor or cobbler, or some such handyman. Am I mistaken, Liana?’

  Alice glanced at Liana, who was watching them, holding her breath. As Liana had no idea what to say, Alice said, ‘Have you ever seen an Alexander McQueen jacket?’

  ‘Of course not. What are you talking about? Has this queen read my work? Can he read without moving his lips?’

  Alice said, ‘Perhaps I did mention, to help me locate you, that you are a maestro like the maestro Valentino, beloved of many, including Liana.’

  ‘You located me, did you? You did compare us.’

  ‘It is an honour, perhaps.’

  ‘In what possible way could that be an honour?’

  ‘Well, it is, to me.’

  Mamoon was beginning to look irritable. He said, ‘We are talking about appearance only with these people.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Alice said, ‘It’s more than that. We are discussing how something should be made. How it looks. How it is. An attitude.’

  ‘An attitude. How do you mean?’

  She said, ‘A kiss . . .’

  ‘Speak up. I’m almost deaf.’

  ‘A kiss, a curse, a cup, a shoe, a hem, a cardigan, a watch, a joke, an act of politeness – and of course a sentence, a paragraph, a page . . . Don’t all have to have style, grace, flair – and wit?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Art isn’t only in a book?’

  Harry whispered, ‘Flaubert wrote, “Style is life.”’

  Mamoon said, ‘A more universal beauty might be something to strive for.’

  ‘Good,’ Alice said, sighing. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Thank God, good,’ said Liana. She held up the wine. ‘This is the Guigal 2009. Or would you prefer the Chablis?’

  ‘Quiet please, Liana.’

  ‘Sorry, Mamoon?’

  ‘Unlike you, maestro, I read magazines,’ went on Alice. ‘And didn’t you say to a journalist that an artist has to sprinkle a little magic dust on what he does? Doesn’t that apply to every object? Look at this simple platinum ring.’ She offered him her hand, which he held and stared at. ‘Can you see what I mean? The ring has it.’

  He said, ‘Yes, all right, it is a form of sensuality. Some people call it Eros, who was hatched from an egg, setting the whole universe in motion. The luminous radiation of love.’

  ‘You see.’

  He looked up at her. ‘You almos
t cheer me up, my dear.’

  ‘Only almost?’

  Mamoon said, ‘You remind me that language – indeed all real things – have to vibrate with sensuality. I see that. But if I seem slightly gloomy, it’s because I’ve been having this damned recurring nightmare. It’s a dull, common one, nevertheless it is persistent, and I want it away for good.’

  ‘Are you naked in the dream, sir?’ enquired Julia suddenly. She had been listening while serving.

  ‘The maestro is never naked,’ said Liana. ‘Now, Mamoon, please—’

  Mamoon said, ‘Are you naked in your dreams, Julia?’

  ‘Never a stitch on, running wildly through the fields singing, with everyone looking at me.’

  ‘You silly thing.’ Mamoon wiped his brow and said, ‘Harry, if you’re imposing yourself on us for a bit longer, you could be of use. I believe you have set yourself up to be something of a dream reader.’

  ‘Have I?’

  ‘Liana informed me that you can see through a dream at the drop of a hat. You learned it from your revered father.’

  Harry shook his head and said, ‘My father also warned me that you should no more tell others your dreams than you would give them your bank details.’

  ‘But you’re brilliant, Harry,’ said Liana. ‘Mamoon, won’t you tell us, please – can we hear where your soul has been travelling? Its wanderings have been paining us all for a long time.’

  Fourteen

  Mamoon said, ‘They have? Let me speak for once, Liana.’

  ‘Go forth,’ she said.

  Mamoon cleared his throat and adopted what Liana referred to as his Nobel Prize acceptance speech face.

  ‘I am in a large hall with shapely, curved walls, for some reason. There I am taking my finals but I haven’t prepared. I sit there staring at the blank page until the horror of my failure increases, and I know I’m going to implode. I wake up in a sweat, and, as you know, Harry, sometimes screaming my head off. What’s it all about, Harry?’

  ‘I’ve said before, Harry, no need to hide your light,’ said Alice, squeezing his hand. She giggled, ‘Dance, monkey, dance.’

  They were all looking at Harry now, who, hesitating to expose his light or to dance, hummed his anxious Pooh Bear hum, while wiping his hands on his jeans.

  ‘It’s very common, that dream—’

  ‘Yes, but why?’ said Mamoon.

  ‘Because it is about that which we can’t be prepared for – the great test we men have passed before, but have no way of knowing we will pass again.’

  ‘Thank you, Madame Sosostris,’ said Mamoon. ‘What test do you refer to?’

  ‘Potency. Phallic male effectiveness. And whether this time, as opposed to all the other times, a man can satisfy the woman. Or will fail to satisfy her. What does the man actually have – a fallible phallus? No wonder you’re sweating. Our dreams are always ahead of us, sir.’ He went on, ‘Very kindly, you let me see your beloved father’s letters. He insisted, repeatedly, that you bring glory to the family by succeeding – at everything. I was shocked, he was so tough. Worse than my own dad, with his insistences.’ Mamoon was staring at him. Harry recalled that Rob had suggested that a quote, real or imagined, from an ancient author always halted and impressed the writer. ‘We know that the wretched Christians want to renounce desire, but as the great Petronius puts it so well, “How can you be a soldier without a weapon?”’

  There was a pause. ‘I see,’ said Mamoon.

  Liana said, ‘Stop staring, Julia, and wipe that expression off your face. Get on with your work. Why do you stand there like a plum?’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘I’ve never been more filthy. Run my bath.’

  ‘Yes, miss.’

  ‘By the way, what are you doing with that book of Mamoon’s in your hand?’

  ‘This? Reading it, miss.’

  ‘You’re reading me, Julia?’ Mamoon said. ‘Are you really?’

  ‘I am – again,’ she said. ‘My favourite: the story of the five dictators – two from Africa, one from the Middle East, another from China, and the last more local – all in love with the girl. You show the soft improving quality of love, and the man in the monster. It’s beautiful, sir. It makes me laugh and cry every time.’

  Mamoon blushed. ‘Good, good. You used to read a lot.’

  ‘When – when did she read a lot?’ asked Liana.

  ‘When she was little, and a lot of trouble and fun she was, too,’ said Mamoon. He reached up and pinched her cheek. ‘A sweet thing – eh, beta?’

  Julia said, ‘Mamoon gave me books. He threw them all at me, like a test, thinking I’d never read them, but I sat down and got through them, and showed him.’

  ‘You did,’ he said.

  ‘Like what?’ said Liana.

  ‘Erm . . . Harper Lee, Ruth Rendell, Muriel Spark—’

  ‘Grazie a Dio, you are more than ridiculous,’ said Liana.

  ‘Don’t accuse me!’ cried Julia. ‘Don’t ever say I’m stupid. Are you saying that, miss?’

  ‘Liana wouldn’t dare say that, beta,’ said Mamoon.

  ‘She’s shouting in our house, Mamoon,’ said Liana. ‘Hear her!’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t stand for it!’

  ‘I’m not,’ he said, calmly.

  Julia sat down beside him and said, ‘It must be an amazing thing, sir, to have the skill to tell a story like that. You must wake up proud.’

  ‘Thank you, dear girl, I am proud now,’ he said. ‘I wake up sweating in the night with relief. I got away with it. To have once been a writer is something.’

  ‘Once?’

  ‘You mock yourself, sir, surely,’ said Harry.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘A friend of my father’s, a film-maker of your generation, has increased his output as he’s aged. He sees the necessity of getting on with things, of honouring the talent he has been blessed with.’

  ‘What the damn fuck for?’

  ‘Why should a man’s desire for potency and work diminish? After all, what other dignity is there? There is certainly none in feigned helplessness. “A man must follow his path even in the midst of ruin,” says Sophocles in Antigone. Titian did his best work after seventy. Goethe, at the age of seventy-four, asked for the hand – at least the hand – of a nineteen-year-old.’

  ‘It is uplifting to hear there are forms of satisfaction available to someone like me. I like – I really like – being a writer. But is work enough?’

  Liana had been staring at Julia, before banging the table hard. ‘How dare you! Why are you sitting still like that? Have you forgotten you work here?’

  ‘Would you like me to continue clearing out your shoes?’

  ‘Yes, and don’t take anything without asking. I can’t run into you in town again wearing my purple Marc Jacobs. I asked you to wear them in for me, not wear them out.’

  ‘Sorry, miss. It won’t happen again,’ Julia said.

  ‘And do not fail to place orange peel in them overnight,’ called Liana. Then, when the girl had hardly gone, she said, ‘A skivvy who thinks she’s in the Bloomsbury Group – what attention-seeking rubbish that girl talks. It’s about time we replaced her with someone ignorant. Suppose she joins a trade union, Mamoon?’

  ‘I should have discussed it with Mrs Thatcher,’ he said.

  When Julia had run out and Liana had gone into the garden to find the dogs, Mamoon, clutching the arms of the chair and groaning, attempted to get to his feet.

  ‘If only you knew, Alice, how an artist grunts and strains to keep the language full of beans, and how much my back hurts since the tennis incident, making me stiff in all the wrong places. I could be semi-crippled for good now, with your boyfriend steering my wheelchair.’

  ‘Maestro, why didn’t you say before? I can help you.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Didn’t Harry tell you that I trained briefly as a masseuse?’

  ‘You did? No one has ever spoken
sweeter words to me,’ he said. ‘Your darling Harry is no use at all, but only asks stupid questions about things that happened forty years ago!’

  ‘That would make an athlete ache.’

  He wriggled. ‘Dear girl, are you sure you can bear to touch me?’

  ‘As a teenager, I worked as a geriatric nurse.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Let me find some almond oil.’

  ‘Try Liana’s bathroom. Hurry: we can retire to my barn for privacy. While Harry redrafts my history, you can realign my spine – if Harry gives permission.’

  Harry said there would be nothing he would like more. He took Alice out into the hall, and they hugged and kissed, falling against the wall. He whispered, ‘You goddess, how did you do it – taking him on like that?’

  ‘I don’t know, Harry. He was like you said, tough, and he was at me and I was cornered. It was so quick and I couldn’t breathe. But I knew I had to fight or I’d be done for. It came out like that.’

  ‘You tiger, if you massage him, he’ll calm down, and we might get somewhere.’

  She kissed him. ‘I’ll do it, and leave the rest to you.’

  When Harry returned to the kitchen, Mamoon murmured, ‘Thank you for your dream interpretation.’

  ‘A pleasure.’

  ‘Clearly.’ Mamoon said, ‘The lovable, country child, Julia. The one who dreams she is naked and once, I believe, within my hearing, while you were playing pool in the afternoon, called you Fizzy Pants. While others talk, you look at her with some interest and amusement.’

  ‘I do?’

  ‘Why would that be?’

  ‘I guess in London you never see white people working.’

  ‘I agree it is a wonderful sight, and not something you see down here much either. I’ve long said it’s over for the white races, an obvious truth which caused much agitation amongst the journalists. The rich will rule as usual; they come in all colours, particularly yellow.’ He said, ‘But I admit it is good to watch people work.’

  ‘You feel superior?’

  ‘Not at all. It reminds me of my humble duty to contribute, which is what I want to get back to, once I’m free of this pain.’