Stars and Bars: A Novel

  Thatcher reappeared to take their orders.

  “Chicken omelette,” Halfacre said. “Grilled plaice, side salad, no dressing. Sancerre OK for you, Henderson?”

  “Lovely.” Henderson’s eyes skittered desperately over the menu, searching first for something he liked, then for something he recognized. Halfacre’s requests didn’t even seem to be listed here. This sort of man ordered what he wanted, not what was offered.

  “I’ll, um, start with the, ah, crevettes fumées aux framboises. Followed by …” Jesus Christ. “Followed by … filet mignon with butterscotch sauce.”

  “Vegetables, sir?”

  Henderson looked. Salsify, fenugreek, root ginger. What were these things? He saw one that was familiar. “Braised radishes.”

  The menus were removed.

  “Sorry, Pruitt,” he said, flapping out his napkin. “There was something you wanted to talk to me about.”

  Pruitt was drawing furrows on the thick white linen of the tablecloth with the tines of his fork.

  “That’s right.” He paused. “How would you react, Henderson, if I said … if I said that the one word I associate with you is ‘hostel’?”

  “ ‘Hostel’?” His mind raced. “As in ‘youth hostel’?”

  “No, for God’s sake. As in ‘hostel aircraft,’ ‘hostel country,’ as in The Soviets are hostel to American policy.’ ”

  “Oh. Got you. We say ‘style.’ ‘Hostyle.’ ”

  “Why”—Pruitt now held his fork with both hands as if he might bend it—“why do you hate me, Henderson? Why do I sense this incredible aggression coming from you?”

  It took the whole of the unsatisfactory lunch (Henderson had been agog at his lurid shrimps and managed one mouthful of his candied steak) to convince Halfacre that, far from disliking him, Henderson on the contrary both admired and respected his colleague. That he was, moreover, an ideal confederate and a brilliant mind. Halfacre took twenty minutes to travel from skepticism through grudging apologies to overt gratitude. Henderson’s quizzing established that the misconception had arisen a week before when Halfacre had called a greeting down a corridor and Henderson—so Halfacre had thought—had rather curtly returned it.

  “And you thought it meant I disliked you?”

  “God, Henderson, I just didn’t know. It was so … you know, implicit with … with … What was I meant to think?”

  “You said, ‘Hi there, Henderson.’ And I said ‘Hello’ back.”

  “But it was the way you said it.”

  “Hello. Hello. There is only one way.”

  “There you go again. ‘Hler, hler.’ ”

  “But that’s the way I talk, Pruitt.”

  “But I felt that you … Look, OK, so I’m a little paranoid. I know. I’ve got problems of self-alignment. I worry about these things. The aggression in this city, Henderson. The competitiveness … I mean, there are guys I was at school with, guys I grew up with—dentists, brokers—earning twelve times what I do. Twelve.” He went on listing his complaints and fears. Henderson watched him light a thick cigar to go with his “black tea,” and wondered what Halfacre really had to worry about. If only he had Halfacre’s problems … Then it struck him that perhaps all that was important to the Halfacres of this world was actually to be in a state of worry—about something, about anything. I worry, ergo sum.

  “I think it’s good for us to talk this way,” Halfacre said around his cigar. “You know, if we—you and I—can get that sort of supportive holistic flow”—pushing motion with both hands—“God, could we generate and strengthen …

  We internalize, Henderson. I internalize. All the time, I know. It’s my fault. My hamartia, hah.” He frowned. “And that can’t be good, can it?”

  “Well, no. I suppose. But on the other hand—”

  “You’re right. You’re so right.”

  They walked slowly up Fifth Avenue, the huge park on their left, back toward the office.

  “I’m very grateful, Henderson,” Halfacre said.

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “I want you to know how I value our friendship. How much I admire your books, and your learning.”

  “Don’t give it another thought.” Henderson broke out in a sweat of embarrassment.

  “No, I feel—”

  “Let’s go to the Frick,” he said suddenly, inspired.

  They paid their dollar each and entered the dim cool gallery. The plash of water from the courtyard, the solid gray stone and marble and the immaculate plants exuded a green tranquillity and worked their usual spell. Henderson relaxed. If only I could set my bed up here, he thought, I know I could sleep.

  They moved slowly through a roomful of Goya, Lorrain and Van Dyck, then into another large room. Halfacre was silenced at last, looking at the paintings. Henderson’s mind wandered, pondering the logistics of his trip south. He decided to drive, spend a couple of days on the road. See Kentucky, Virginia … one night in Washington, perhaps. Irene could give him a guided tour around the capital. He smiled at the prospect. Stay in really nice hotels. Find one somewhere near this Luxora Beach. Irene could swim and sunbathe while he worked at the Gage house during the day. Spend the evenings with Irene, just the two of them, Melissa and his conscience back in New York.

  He paused. That was not exactly the sort of attitude one should develop toward one’s future wife. He grimaced slightly. He wondered why he persisted in being so divided, so untrue to his best instincts, so wayward in regard to his duty. Perhaps Pruitt would say that was his tragic flaw.…

  He looked around. Halfacre had gone on ahead. Henderson wheeled left and cut across the courtyard into another room. On the walls were Romneys, Gainsboroughs and Constables. For an instant he felt a tremor of homesickness for England. He thought dreamily of English landscapes, the reality behind the images hanging here. Now that it was April the leaves would be well advanced, and in the fields … The enormous, hedgerowless fields would be loud prairies of brutal shouting yellow, some European Community incentive having encouraged the farmers to sow every available acre with rape. And then in the autumn it was like driving through a war-torn country, vast columns of smoke from the burning stubble rising into the sky, the sky itself finely sedimented with flakes of ash. One weekend last summer, sitting outside a friend’s cottage in the Cotswolds reading the Sunday papers, he had been driven indoors by a fragile rain of cinders that drifted softly but steadily down upon him from an apparently clear sky.

  In this mood of harsh realism he turned to Richard Paul Jodrell by Gainsborough. There was the supercilious, self-satisfied face of England. And in The Mall in St. James’s Park were the smug English belles, unchanged in two centuries. He could imagine the conversation, hear the very tones of their lazy voices. He peered closer. To his vague surprise one of the women looked remarkably like his mother.

  He thought of her now, a sharp-nosed, well-preserved sixty-five-year-old, living in her neat “villa” in Hove. Her over-made-up face, her gray hair cut in a youthful bob, her deep, unshakable and unreflecting conservatism. She spent a lot of time with her grown-up nieces and their young families, a rich and popular visitor to their green-belt homes. Henderson was her only child, and they gamely maintained an appearance of filial and maternal affection that on the whole effectively disguised mutual disapproval.

  Henderson strode urgently out of the room. This was what he was escaping; that was his past, now behind him forever, he hoped. He slowed down and strolled through a roomful of frothing pastel Fragonards. No Halfacre. He retraced his steps.

  Halfacre seemed hardly to have moved. He was standing in front of a Vermeer, Mistress and Maid. Henderson looked at him more closely. Tears ran down his face. His chest and shoulders twitched with little sobs.

  “Pruitt,” Henderson said with alarm. “What’s wrong?” Had he somehow caused further offense?

  Halfacre gestured at the painting.

  “It’s so true,” he said. “It’s so true.”

  Henderson
suppressed his automatic sneer. That’s the difference between us, he thought sadly. An immense unbridgeable gulf. We’ve both made art our career, but he can weep in galleries. I would rather die.

  Henderson moved away, somewhat disturbed. He had no idea what to say and was suddenly uncomfortably aware of the progress he still had to make before he would feel at home in this country.

  Look at the paintings, he told himself. He obeyed. The Deposition, by Gerard David. The Painter, by Frans Hals. Judith and Holofernes, by Jakob van Hoegh. He paused by this one, vaguely shocked by the relish of Judith’s expression as she hacked her way crudely through Holofernes’ neck. Judith had a pert, small-chinned face, heart shaped. Holofernes’ tongue, livid purple and foam flecked, stuck out a good three inches.

  “Pruitt, come and have a look at this,” Henderson said. That should stop him crying.

  Later that afternoon Beeby looked into the office with Gage’s telephone number and the instructions about where and when to meet up. They were quite simple. When Henderson arrived in Atlanta he was to phone the given number between four and five P.M. He would then be told where to proceed.

  “Is that all?”

  “Afraid so.”

  “It’s a bit cloak-and-dagger, isn’t it? Is it all really necessary?”

  “You know these types,” Beeby said solemnly. “Insecure. Jealous of their solitude. He was absolutely adamant on proceeding this way. Adamant. We’ve got to respect it, Henderson. Can’t afford to give offense.”

  “Softly, softly.”

  “Exactly.” Beeby screwed up his eyes and waggled a hand. “He sounds a bit of a dodgy number. I think we’ll have to go very carefully.”

  Henderson walked with him to the door. Beeby fiddled with his signet ring.

  “Good luck,” he said, and patted Henderson on the elbow. It was an expression of genuine affection and concern.

  “Don’t worry,” Henderson said; his fingers brushed Beeby’s sleeve, expressing his affection in return. Whole paragraphs of information and sentiment had been conveyed in the four words.

  “I’ll give you a phone once I’ve made contact. And Tom; it’ll be fine.”

  “I know. See you next week.”

  Henderson watched Beeby’s tall figure amble down the corridor. He felt his eyes moist. He’s relying on me, he thought. Like a father. Almost.

  chapter three

  THE gym was down by the East River in the basement of an old building between the Queensboro Bridge and F.D.R. Drive. It was the only place in Manhattan where Henderson had been able to find a saber coach and so he charitably attempted to ignore its less salubrious qualities.

  The basement windows were heavily barred and opaque with grime. The basement well was brightened by drifts of waxed-paper cartons and aluminum beer and soft-drink cans. The studded and battered double steel doors were luridly and professionally graffitied with futuristic names and numbers.

  Henderson went in. An ancient man behind a grille scrutinized his Queensboro Health Club membership card.

  “Is Mr. Teagarden here?” Henderson asked.

  “Yep.”

  Henderson walked along a passageway and turned into the humid locker room. Thin avenues of gray lockers took up most of the space. Low benches ran between them. Three Puerto Rican kids in boxing gear smoked in a line near Henderson’s locker.

  He tried to undress with nonchalance. Then he pulled on his white socks and white polo-neck jumper and stepped into his white knickerbockers. He heard the chuckles and gibes break out behind him.

  “Hey, what that shit you wearing?”

  Henderson laced his gym shoes.

  “Some kinda fairy, man?”

  He slung his saber bag over his shoulder. Sticks and stones.

  “Snow White. He Snow White!”

  May break my bones. He picked up his mask, gloves and padded waistcoat. But names will never harm me.

  “Spiderman! He Spiderman!”

  He strode out of the locker room with as much dignity as he could muster.

  The low-roofed gym area was surprisingly large. There was a boxing ring, a scrap yard of fitness machines—chain and pulley systems, canting seats and legrests, short conveyor belts with dials and handrails—and the usual barbells and weights for the glistening, walnut-brained beefcakes to toss around. There was a large padded mat area for the martial arts enthusiasts and, behind a door at the far end, a steam room and plunge pool.

  In the far corner he could see Teagarden marking out the fencing piste with chalk.

  “You’re late,” Teagarden said.

  “Busy day,” Henderson apologized. “And I’ve got to be out of here by half six.”

  “Ain’t no reduction.”

  “Oh, no. I wasn’t suggesting …”

  Eugene Teagarden was black. The only black sabreur in America, he claimed, which was why he charged such high rates. He was slim and dapper, with a tidy wide moustache and a manner that vacillated erratically between hostility and scorn. He was, as far as Henderson could tell, a brilliant swordsman. He taught, moreover, not fencing but “zencing.” The raw technique came with a heady garnish of philosophy and consciousness-expanding routines. Impelled by the continuous exhortation in America to exercise, Henderson had plumped for fencing, the only sport he had vaguely enjoyed while at school. It wasn’t so much the exercise he was after as the topic of conversation it provided him with at dinners and parties. When the talk inevitably moved to working out, aerobics, discussions of the stride-length factor in jogging, Henderson could chip in with a fencing anecdote.

  He took a saber out of his bag.

  “Don’t want to waste no time, then,” Teagarden said. “Masks on. On guard.”

  Henderson slid on his mask, the big cyclopean fly-eye. He liked the mask; it made his head as featureless as a light bulb.

  “Remember the drills,” Teagarden said.

  Controlled relaxation, Henderson intoned, controlled relaxation. This was the key to the Teagarden approach; this was the core of zencing. And this was why he persisted with Teagarden’s abuse and truculence: it did him good, he hoped. He didn’t need to exercise, he needed the therapy.

  “On the toes.”

  Henderson rose on his toes, legs apart, left hand perched on his hip, the saber held angled in front of him.

  “Feel that blade,” Teagarden said, now masked and on guard opposite him. “You are that blade. There is only the blade. You do not exist. What are you?”

  “I, um, am the blade.”

  “Controlled relaxation.”

  Henderson relaxed and tried to stay in control.

  “Take your measure.”

  The sabers made contact. A tinny scratching sound.

  “Feel it?”

  “What?”

  “The sensation du fer.”

  “Oh, yes. I feel it.”

  “OK. Flèche attack any time you like.”

  The flèche attack was a sort of mad scampering charge that often took the attacker thundering past his opponent. At some point during the attack one was meant to deliver a cut to the cheek or the flank.

  Henderson swayed. Teagarden was poised and immobile. Henderson thought he might fall over, he felt so relaxed.

  He sang a song to himself, another of Teagarden’s drills. For some reason he always sang “Nymphs and Shepherds.”

  Nymphs and shepherds, come away, come away. I am the blade, he reminded himself; I am the blade. Come, come, come, come away. He was going to make a flèche attack on Teagarden’s left side—unorthodox—but administer a cut to the right side of the face—even more unorthodox. So fingernails of the sword hand down, sword arm straight behind the guard, breathe out, relax, a feint to the right and charge!

  He felt Teagarden’s stop cut jar on the inside of the right elbow and, almost simultaneously, the thwacking cuts to the head and left cheek as he galloped by, skewering air.

  “What you doing, man?” Teagarden shouted, as Henderson caromed into a wall ladder. “
You was wide open. You was fuckin’ slashin’, too.”

  He wandered over, mask perched on the top of his head. “The cut is a twitch of your little finger.” Ping, bock, rasp, scratch, ping. Teagarden’s saber administered five cuts to Henderson’s mask in as many milliseconds.

  “You ain’t Errol fuckin’ Flynn. It’s all wrist, man. You’re like chopping meat.” He swished madly in the air in illustration. “You ain’t a butcher, you’re a artist. You’re a art man, it should come natural.”

  “Sorry,” Henderson mumbled.

  “OK. So just breathe.”

  They breathed for a couple of minutes.

  “Controlled relaxation,” Teagarden said

  Henderson relaxed.

  “Let’s do it this way,” Teagarden said. “You’re on top of a mountain, OK? In a white room. You was born there. You lived there all your life. Why? ’Cause you’re the king of fencing. The lord of sabreurs. People come from all over to your mountain to watch you in your room. To watch your flèche attacks. Why? Because you flèche attack purely, man. Pure. Got that?”

  “Mountain, white room, pure. Yes.”

  “Shut your eyes.” His voice dropped a tone. “You are the lord of sabreurs in your white room on the mountain. Think about it. Imagine it. Be there. What are you?”

  Henderson opened his eyes and looked about him edgily. Nobody appeared to be listening. He shut his eyes again.

  “I’m, ah, the (little cough) lord of sabreurs.”

  “Louder.”

  “I am the lord of sabreurs.”

  “Louder.”

  “I am the lord of sabreurs!”

  “Louder!”

  “I am the lord of sabreurs!”

  Henderson opened his eyes. People had stopped exercising; a small crowd had gathered. For some reason he felt curiously elated, almost light-headed with embarrassment. Only Teagarden could make him behave like this. Only in America would he have complied.

  “OK. I’m going to feint at the head and you parry quinte. Got that?”

  “Yes.”