I thought back to the first time, in Mr Rinyo-Clacton’s bedroom: I’d had a lot of champagne and I was in a strange state of mind and I … what? I wanted to get the burden of myself off my back. He said later he could feel the death in me responding to him. What a poetic image. And the second time he simply did it his way because he was strong enough to. When I went to meet him at the opera was I hoping to get AIDS? Was I that crazy? I saw myself sitting on the floor in Piccadilly Circus tube station. What a poor excuse for a man!
‘Jonathan,’ said Katerina, ‘mostly I get the big things right, like the death in him – but whether this is your death by violence and his own from illness or only the death that lives always in the mind I can’t be sure. And even if illness, it could be anything, not only HIV or AIDS. With details I am not at all reliable. And as I’ve already told you once, maybe you have nothing from him. Now you must wait three months and then you get yourself HIV-tested and we know what’s what.’
‘Three months of not knowing!’
‘Ah, Jonathan! There’s a saying in German: no matter which way you turn, your arse stays always behind.’
‘Thank you for your input, Katerina. God knows how long it might have taken me to work that out for myself.’
‘Now you’re angry.’
‘I’m sorry – it’s not you I’m angry at. Now I’m thinking something that I don’t want to say out loud. Can you read my thought?’
‘Yes, but there’s something else I want to talk about: have I only thought it or have you said to me that Serafina is your destiny-woman?’
‘I don’t remember, but that’s what she is – or was. I’m not sure that she thinks of herself that way any more.’
‘Tell me, please, what is a destiny-woman.’
‘For me a destiny-woman is the one that your whole life has brought you to – whatever you’ve done or not done, whatever roads you’ve kept to and whatever turns you’ve taken and when you find her your two life-lines are joined from then on.’
‘What do you mean when you say “life-line”?’
‘I’m not sure it’s definable. Sometimes I think I can feel how things are moving and where they’re going.’
‘Is it a predestined line, do you think?’
‘Not exactly but I think there are probabilities: if you see a pig and a chicken in a farmyard you might predict bacon and eggs in their life-lines.’
‘What do you predict in yours?’
‘Well, you know the contract I’ve signed with Mr Rinyo-Clacton.’
‘I’m not sure that’s an accurate prediction. Life-lines are strange things – what you’ve done and haven’t done, the roads you’ve kept to and the turns you’ve taken. My own life is incomprehensible to me; I can feel it following some unknown line like a dog on a scent but I don’t know what it is. Your life too is following a line unknown to you. That thought you were thinking – I advise you not to act on it just yet. Wait and see how things go. Do you understand me?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is a heavy time for you, Jonathan. If you want to stay here tonight you know you are welcome.’
‘Thank you, but tonight I think I have to be alone with whatever’s going to be looking out of the mirror at me.’
She kissed me. ‘Come safe to your house.’
‘I’ll try.’
18
Where’s Ruggiero?
I found myself thinking of Orlando Furioso. It was years since I’d read it and I’d forgotten most of it but not the part in Canto X where the beautiful Angelica, chained naked to a rock on the Isle of Tears, is about to be devoured by the sea-monster, Orca. Ruggiero, flying over the outer Hebrides on the hippogriff, sees her plight and speeds to her rescue. He wounds Orca, unchains Angelica, and off they go, Angelica on the pillion seat and Ruggiero lusting for his reward. He lands on the shore in expectation of heroic delights but while he’s struggling out of his armour Angelica puts a magic ring in her mouth, becomes invisible, exits with her virginity intact, and leaves Ruggiero to his own devices.
It struck me, as I walked to the Lord Jim, that the Angelica/Ruggiero/Orca pattern is a paradigm of the human condition: in every situation large and small there is an Angelica, a Ruggiero, and an Orca. Take a simple everyday thing like the shopping: the near-empty larder, Angelica, needs to be rescued from emptiness, Orca; the one who goes to the shops for food is Ruggiero. Or a big thing like a coronary bypass: the heart is Angelica; the thrombosis is Orca; the surgeon is Ruggiero. There is, of course, no frustration for either of these Ruggieros.
At the present time I seemed to be Angelica to Mr Rinyo-Clacton’s Orca. What a position to be in! And within myself the Angelica of my essential identity was threatened by the Orca of my stupidity. Or my death-wish. Or something else? How well did I know myself? Where were my Ruggieros, internal and external?
19
Whichever Way You Turn
I was certain that Mr Rinyo-Clacton was HIV-positive at the very least. Because that’s how things are – you open the door to a possibility and the next thing you know, an actuality has you by the throat. O God, I thought, if only I could turn back the clock to the other day when I hadn’t yet met Mr Rinyo-Clacton. Actually I don’t believe in a God that can be talked to, prayed to, haggled with, and so on. There might be something dreaming the universe or even consciously thinking it but I very much doubt that its eye is on the sparrow. Maybe it thinks in waves and particles and patterns, and one of the patterns is Mr Rinyo-Clacton.
Back at the Lord Jim I got a knife out of my bag – a French one with a four and three-quarter-inch blade that folds into the wooden handle. I’d never used it for anything but cutting baguettes and sausages but I kept it razor-sharp. I put it in my jacket pocket and went back to Earl’s Court Road.
I thought I might have dinner at the Vegemania but when I got there I saw Mr Rinyo-Clacton at a table by the window. Zoé and Rima were busy at other tables and Serafina was serving him, yes, potato pancakes while he smiled up at her. My right hand fitted itself around the smooth and shapely handle of the knife in my pocket. Forget it, I said to myself – you’re not cut out for this sort of thing.
As I stood there watching I could almost smell the whole scene, him and her and the potato pancakes – bitter aloes, fear and desire, and the crispy golden-brownness that was the ultimate expression of the art of frying. Everything I saw seemed more so: Serafina in jeans, grey jumper, and leopard-spotted scarf, blushing slightly as she looked down at him from under her long lashes, her face thoughtful; Mr Rinyo-Clacton elegant in a black suit, white shirt and what was probably a regimental tie; his black brows and moustache, his rosy cheeks and bright eyes as he smiled up at her; the warm lustre of the varnished pine tables; the soft glow of the bell-flower lamps; the gleam of the bentwood chairs; the pancakes on the blue-and-gold-rimmed plate with the little tubs of apple sauce and sour cream.
As if it were a scene in an opera I could see the Daimler pulling up later and Serafina getting into it while the music voiced its foreboding with strings and woodwinds. I could see Mr Rinyo-Clacton, delaying not, hurrying not, rising and falling like the sea as he took his pleasure on the long body of Serafina. On the leopardskin back seat, on the silken sheets of his bed, perhaps even standing up in his white-pillared doorway. Mr Rinyo-Clacton who had never been HIV-tested.
He’d probably leave the Vegemania after his second or third order of potato pancakes but he’d be back between ten-thirty and eleven when Serafina finished for the evening, and if I waited until the Daimler came round it would be too late to warn her. The wholefood shop was still open and there was access to the kitchen through it. I told Ron I needed a quick word with Serafina and went into the kitchen where more potato pancakes were sizzling on the griddle and sending out their pheromones. Serafina half-smiled when she saw me. ‘If you want some,’ she said, ‘you’ll have to sit down at a table like the rest of the punters.’
‘Not this time, Fina. That man out there with the moustache,
the one who looks like Lord Lucan – I know he had lunch here and I saw you talking to him before…’
The half-smile vanished. ‘Should I have asked your permission?’ Zoë came in at that moment, gave me a less than friendly look, and became busy with tortellini.
‘Please listen to me,’ I said to Serafina. ‘I know him and he’s bad news. If he asks you to go out with him, don’t do it. He’s not to be trusted.’
‘What else is new?’
‘Maybe we should talk about this privately.’
‘If you’ve got anything to say, say it now.’
I paused while Zoé, shaking her head, exited with the tortellini. ‘He’s not to be trusted,’ I said, ‘because one way or another he’ll get you into bed and he won’t use a condom and he might well be HIV-positive.’
‘What?’ Serafina’s eyes were suddenly very large. ‘How do you know that? Oh, no!’ Smoke was rising from the griddle as the pancakes burned. ‘Shit!’ she said, and with the spatula she lifted them up and dropped them into the bin.
‘Fina!’
‘What?’ Her face was turned away from me.
‘Look at me!’
When she turned towards me she was blushing. ‘Serafina, you’ve slept with him, haven’t you?’
‘Jonathan, tell me how you know so much about this man’s sex life.’
‘Will you answer my question if I answer yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘What I’m going to tell you – it isn’t how it might sound; I’m still the same Jonathan, I haven’t changed and become something else, I … ’
‘For God’s sake, Jonathan, just say it.’
‘Goddam it, Fina, I don’t think you know what it did to me when you left. I was depressed all the time and drunk a lot of the time and I was really at an all-time low when I met this guy and he invited me to his box at the opera … ’
‘Go on,’ she was looking at me as if everything that had been between us was suddenly wiped out and she didn’t know who or what I was.
‘Well, I had a lot of champagne and we went back to his place and he …’
‘He what? I need to hear you say it.’
‘Well, he had me.’
‘He had you. Are you telling me that he buggered you?’
‘Yes – it just sort of happened without my intending it.’
‘Without a condom?’
‘Without a condom.’
‘How come? Why didn’t you ask him to use one?’
‘Jesus, Fina, don’t make me give you a play-by-play description. We didn’t talk about what was going to happen – it was a situation where he just took charge and there we were.’
‘And how was it for you, Jonathan?’
‘Embarrassing.’
She shook her head. ‘Whew! This is a side – or should I say a backside? – of you that I’d no idea of. When you were having all those affairs with the Excelsior ladies, were you doing it with the men as well?’
‘Give me a break, Fina – nothing like that ever happened before.’
‘Well, I’m thankful for that. I mean, I’d like to think that something of what we had was real.’
‘You know it was, it is, real – all of it.’
‘You can say that but I don’t know what I know any more.’
‘Yes, you do. But let’s come back to my question – I’ve answered yours and now it’s your turn to answer mine.’
She was blushing furiously but she looked me in the eye with something like defiance. ‘The short answer is that he’s had me too.’
I shook my head as I tried not to see her and Mr Rinyo-Clacton naked on that bed. ‘When, for God’s sake?’
‘This afternoon.’
I ground my teeth. I’d been thinking of him as dangerous only at night and I’d forgotten that Serafina was off between three and five. ‘I don’t believe this. Have you ever seen him before today?’
‘No.’
‘Was it rape?’
‘No.’
‘My God, I’d no idea you were that easy, Serafina. How’d he manage it – “Come up to my place and look at my African sculptures”? What?’
‘Don’t,’ she said.
‘Did he say anything about me?’
‘Only that you were a friend of his and he’d heard about the Vegemania and my potato pancakes from you.’
‘My friend Mr Rinyo-Clacton! O God, who would have thought you and I would ever be having this conversation! Did he use a condom?’
‘Goddam it, Jonathan, you’re not in a position to play the outraged husband.’
‘All right, but did he?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘O God, what if you get pregnant from him?’
‘Wrong time of the month.’
‘But the other possibility! Why couldn’t you have been more careful?’
‘Like you, right? Somehow there isn’t always the moment for careful; there wasn’t for you and there wasn’t for me. We’d been to a place in Sloane Square and I’d had a lot to drink and I was feeling low the same as you and I think I just wanted some consolation. He knew how to say the right things, he was very sweet and gentle and it just happened the way it happened.’
‘And how was it for you, Serafina?’
‘Oh God, I don’t think I’ve got the words for it. It was like an out-of-body experience where I was looking down at the two people on the bed and I knew that I was one of them but it was all so strange, so strange!’ She covered her face with her hands.
‘When I looked through the window and saw you serving him potato pancakes I didn’t know whether you fancied him or what.’
She took her hands away. ‘He wanted me to go out with him tonight. I said no. Is he HIV-positive? Are you sure about that?’
‘I can’t prove it but he told me he never takes precautions and he’s never been tested and I’m pretty sure he’s had a lot of partners. And if he’s HIV-positive he probably gets a thrill out of spreading it around. And there he sits eating your potato pancakes, that son of a bitch.’
Zoë came in with a tray of dirty dishes. ‘Table One wants to know what happened to his second order of potato pancakes,’ she said.
‘Potato pancakes are off,’ said Serafina.
‘I’ll tell him,’ said Zoë, and was gone.
‘I can’t get over it,’ I said. ‘Two days ago I’d never set eyes on him and today here we are like this.’
‘Both of us maybe HIV-positive,’ she said, looking at me sadly. I wanted to hug her; I stretched out my arms to her but she backed away. ‘Damn you, Jonathan, none of this would have happened if you hadn’t cheated on me.’ She was shaking her head despairingly. ‘I think maybe you’ve destroyed us, I think you’ve taken our lives away.’ She covered her face again, and again I tried to hug her but her arms were in the way. ‘You used to give me comfort when I needed it,’ she said, ‘but not any more – that’s all over, all gone with all the rest of what we had: all gone, all gone.’
What could I say? Zoë came in with more dirty dishes and a folded envelope which she stuck in the little wall-mounted box they used for notes and messages. ‘It was on the window sill between the rubber plant and the aspidistra by Table One.’
‘Is he still there?’ I said.
‘Gone.’ She picked up an order of tagliatelle and withdrew. Serafina grabbed the empty brown C5 envelope with a printed label addressed to T. Rinyo-Clacton, Esq; no indication of where it was from. It had been folded in half to make it pocket-size and the back was covered with Mr Rinyo-Clacton’s handwriting. At the top was what looked like a telehone number. Below it we read:
Space between – like moat to keep animals from getting out – jump over space between mind and brain
MR RINYO-CLACTON’S OFFER
Clay – infirm vessels all – leaky & easily broken – death in every one – return to earth. Millionaire Aquarius, bisexual, HIV-positive, afraid of dying, seeks companion in death. Offers to buy someone’s death. No control ove
r his own except suicide but controls death of other – offers £1m + year to live. Will other take £1m, try to kill R-C? Other’s wife or girlfriend – will R-C sleep with her, spread his death around?
‘Oh God,’ said Serafina. ‘ “Millionaire Aquarius, bisexual, HIV-positive”.’
HIV-positive. There goes my life, was my first thought. I might as well say now that when I signed that document in Mr Rinyo-Clacton’s study I did it thinking I’d find some way for him to predecease me. It was a thought that came to me that first time he buggered me. I’d been hoping to enjoy a full life plus the million pounds but now I had no doubt that I’d been infected by him – this was the destiny I’d shaped for myself and Serafina. ‘Other’s wife or girlfriend – will R-C sleep with her, spread his death around?’ And he’d already done it!
‘What’s he playing at?’ said Serafina.
Ron looked into the kitchen. ‘Please forgive my rudeness in interrupting your conversation,’ he said, ‘but this place is actually a restaurant. That is, people come here to pay money for food which we prepare and serve to them. Crazy idea, I know, but there it is.’
‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘I was just going.’ I stuck Mr Rinyo-Clacton’s envelope in my pocket. ‘Can I come back for you when you’re ready to go home?’ I said to Serafina.
She nodded and I left.
20
At Zoë’s Place
The telephone number on the back of the envelope was a central London one that might possibly have some connection with Mr Rinyo-Clacton’s notes. I was used to his style by now: it was in his nature to flaunt rather than hide his intentions; his notes might even have been left for that very purpose. If the notes were for a book, then the number could be that of a publisher. A title page appeared in my mind: The Carnivore Cookbook, by Celestine Latour. I saw Mr Rinyo-Clacton grinning at me in Waterstone’s, felt his hand on my bottom, saw Serafina being devoured by him, saw him smacking his lips as he tasted her sweet flesh. The title page had had a publisher’s logo with a little angel: Derek Engel. That same logo was on the title page of Mind – the Gap. Was Derek Engel going to publish Mr Rinyo-Clacton? Would the seduction of Serafina be in it?