The Many Lives of John Stone
He sits on the edge of Spark’s bed, looking out at his silent fountain, and presses his juddering left hand between thigh and mattress. In the absence of the soothing play of water, John Stone allows his mind to wander back to a time when the world seemed new and he was yet to discover that he was different.
Good Timing
July, Compartment D, 14:30 to Ipswich, Suffolk.
Spark has spread herself out at an unoccupied table in the quiet compartment of the train. She has neglected to turn her phone off. When it starts to ring people crane around to glare at her. She drops Jane Eyre, leaps out of her seat, and darts into the drafty corridor. The automatic doors whoosh closed behind her.
“Mum! I’ve been gone a whole hour!” Spark puts a hand over her other ear to block out the noise.
“I couldn’t wait to tell you—I’ve just come off the phone with Dan. He’s taking a couple of weeks off. He’s coming home!”
“When?”
“At the end of the week.”
“I thought he couldn’t afford it—”
“That’s why he rang. Dan’s landlord says if we can put up his son while he’s here, he’ll buy them both their airfares.”
“The son? Ludo?”
“Yes, Ludo. I’ve told Dan to say to him that he can have your room.”
“Ludo’s coming to Mansfield?”
“Can you believe it? Dan’s coming home after all!”
“But I’ll be at Stowney House—”
“I know, love. But at least you saw Dan in February. I haven’t seen him in getting on for a year.”
Spark switches off her cell and watches the countryside sweep past with glazed eyes. A flock of crows lifts above a field of ripening corn. Black-and-white cows graze in green meadows. Hedgerows and ancient trees hurtle by. She unzips the deep side pocket of her handbag and slips her hand inside, probing with her fingertips until she can feel a sharp edge of cold metal. Spark stares down at the ring pull from Ludo’s can of Coca-Cola and lets her forehead knock against the glass of the window. Great timing, Dan.
Notebook 2
V
It was during that time—at the Spaniard’s suggestion—that I began to keep a journal in a shorthand of my own devising. Over the years I refined my technique until I could write as quickly as I could speak; it had the advantage of being impossible to read by anyone who did not possess the cipher. I have those first, clumsy attempts before me now, and I see that it is of the agonies of adolescent love that I wrote. The browning, mottled paper might smell of decay, but the fading ink still conjures up all the freshness of youth.
What had started as a daydream had, by now, transformed into something that threatened to overwhelm me. The longing made me ill. I could recognize the tilt of Isabelle’s head when she was little more than a speck in the distance; it felt as if I were constantly pushing through crowds trying to reach her, and she would always be carried one way and I in another. I could conjure up her face at will; she appeared constantly in my dreams; often I looked in a mirror and it was Isabelle’s features that I saw. She mixed in such elevated circles that it was impossible for me to approach her without provoking ridicule. Now I understood why the Spaniard had advised me to banish her from my thoughts. Naturally, I became excessively sensitive about my status: It was a sickness to which all we courtiers were prone. The Spaniard used to compare the courtiers of Versailles to hens in a coop: while humbly deferring to their superiors, nothing made them happier than pecking at those of a lower status than their own. Pity, he said, the hen at the bottom of the pecking order. That wretched creature, I vowed, would not be me. Somehow I would prove myself worthy of Isabelle’s regard.
* * *
I was beginning to despair of ever speaking with Isabelle face-to-face when fate intervened to bring us together. It was on the evening of a ball that the Grand Dauphin—Louis’s son and heir—had arranged in honor of the newly constructed grove of the ballroom, and it was to be a splendid affair.
Beforehand, my father and I dined with the Spaniard. My father chose the occasion to make an announcement: “Your brothers are anxious to return to court. I have agreed to their request on condition that they formally beg your forgiveness.”
I recall choking badly on a pike bone. The Spaniard, who was sitting next to me, came to my aid; it took several hard slaps between the shoulder blades before I could dislodge it. I could scarcely blame my father. However my brothers had treated me, we were all his sons and it was his duty to help us all make our respective ways in the world. As I dried my watering eyes, the Spaniard and I exchanged glances.
“Naturally Jean-Pierre is welcome to live under my roof,” said the Spaniard. “Should your own accommodation prove crowded—”
“We have more than enough room for all,” said my father quickly. “But thank you, my dear friend, for your most generous offer.”
“Do you not think it might benefit Jean-Pierre to live with his tutor in the palace itself?”
I saw a vein appear in my father’s forehead. “One day, perhaps. Not yet.”
I recall looking from one to the other as each tried to disguise his anger and avoided my questioning gaze.
Night had fallen and the ball was well under way by the time we reached the grove of the ballroom. Like all the bosquets, it was concealed from view, and was entered via an alleyway of tall, clipped hedges that led from the royal walk. It resembled an ancient amphitheatre and my father and the Spaniard were excited to see it. As for me, Versailles was so full of splendors that I could raise little enthusiasm for yet another one. There were tiers of circular seating, arranged around an open space. The focal point was a cascade that was encrusted with thousands of giant shells. The water burbled over it like a mountain stream, cooling the air that circulated around it. An orchestra had been installed above it: I could see the tightly curled wigs of the musicians poking up over the trellis, and their horsehair bows, which caught the moonlight as they moved in unison. The Spaniard adored dancing, especially the gavotte, which he executed with grace and delicacy despite his size. His heavy black wig flapped about his shoulders as he jumped and turned. My father, however, turned increasingly melancholy, and I found him a seat next to the cascade, where we listened to the sound of falling water and watched the Spaniard dance.
“Your mother,” he commented, “would have loved to have come to this ball. I don’t believe I gave her the opportunity to dance as much as she would have liked. And now it is too late.”
I caught the Spaniard’s eye between dances, and signaled to him. When I whispered into his ear that I did not think my father had the heart to stay for very long, he left the dance floor without a trace of ill humor, and proposed a visit to the recently completed Colonnade.
He led us down the royal walk toward the Apollo Fountain, and then left through a leafy alleyway where the moonlight did not penetrate. Torchlight marked the entrance and we groped our way toward it. Presently the sound of water reached us through the foliage; it grew louder as we approached the Colonnade. On entering the circular clearing a member of the Swiss Guard, the King’s household regiment, saluted us. We found ourselves in a kind of open-air temple. I stood at its center and slowly rotated: I counted thirty-six pale marble columns; in between each column was a fountain; from each fountain pulsed a jet of water, the height, perhaps, of two men. The whole space reverberated with the sound of splashing. Torches had been placed behind each of the fountains so that the water sparkled yellow and red, like liquid fire. I had never seen anything more magical. I expected, at any moment, nymphs and satyrs to appear and move among us mortals.
I had presumed that, aside from the guard, we were alone, but I was mistaken. For a moment I wondered if a herd of pigs had found their way into Versailles, for above the sound of water I heard snorting and grunting. Then came the sound of bodies crashing through the undergrowth, as if men were hunting wild boar. I half expected to hear hounds baying as they do when they have cornered a wounded animal. Inst
ead we saw a crowd of panting young men and women, perhaps fifteen or twenty, darting through the pillars into the moonlit Colonnade, where they stood clutching their sides and bending over as they caught their breath. The grove exaggerated every sound: I could even hear the rustling of silk. Someone grunted like a pig, causing a wave of laughter that subsided only to start up again when someone else took up the call. The young ladies in their tight corsets pleaded with the gentleman to stop making them laugh before they fainted clean away.
The Spaniard shook his head and smiled indulgently.
“Ah, to be young,” commented my father.
I recognized some of them; the young man to whom I had taken such an instant dislike in the Hall of Mirrors was among them. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a movement in the shadows and two more figures fell into the circular space. There was the sound of sobbing and, with a thrill of recognition, I realized that it was Isabelle d’Alembert; she was supporting the arm of a young woman whose face was entirely obscured by a fan.
“Shame on you!” cried out Isabelle.
The laughter stopped.
“Don’t be such a bore, Isabelle. I’m sure Mademoiselle de Cluny does not begrudge us our little joke.” It was a young woman who spoke; her black curls tumbled over her pale shoulders.
“It’s not a very amusing joke,” said Isabelle. I sensed the distress in her voice. They were an intimidating group and she suddenly appeared very young.
“Actually, my dear Isabelle”—it was the self-styled wit speaking now—“I think that anyone with a sense of humor would find that it is—grunt—quite—grunt, grunt—amusing.”
The Colonnade echoed once more to raucous laughter; bejeweled bodies shook with mirth, and fluttering fans, like oversize moths, cooled flushed faces. Isabelle and her sobbing companion left the arena, vanishing into the black shadows beyond the curved sweep of the pillars.
“Please excuse me,” I called to my father and the Spaniard, and ran after Isabelle and her weeping friend. They had not gone far, and I could make out Isabelle’s voice.
“How can he be so hateful! My father says he would make a good suitor—I don’t mind telling you that I would rather die!”
“Can I be of service, Mesdemoiselles?” I cried.
I thought it best to show myself, so I ran in front of them toward a patch of torchlight that spilled out onto the path. Isabelle’s face loomed out of the darkness. I only had eyes for her.
“You!” she exclaimed.
“Mademoiselle,” I replied. “I would like to repay your kindness, if I can. May I be of service to you?”
“You could teach that vile wretch, the Prince de Montclair, a lesson!”
So, he was a prince. His high rank only made him more hateful in my eyes. “Very well,” I said. “I will.” And I turned on my heels and sprinted back to the Colonnade.
“Monsieur!” Isabelle called after me. “No! I did not mean for you to—”
But it was too late: My blood was up. I had had my fill of bullies. I tore past my father and the Spaniard, then halted a few paces from the glittering group, the blood pounding in my ears. I marched straight up to Montclair—he was half a head taller than me—and words came out of my mouth that I had not had time to plan. Silence fell on the party. All we could hear was the splashing of the fountains.
“You have insulted Mademoiselle d’Alembert and her companion, Monsieur,” I declared roundly.
If he was rattled he did not show it but affected to brush some dirt off his shoulder. He replied coolly: “Have we been introduced, Monsieur?”
“I demand that you offer your apologies to Mademoiselle d’Alembert.”
“Monsieur, you are impertinent!”
His tone was purposefully disdainful. I never took my eyes from him. “It is you who are impertinent,” I cried.
He rounded on me, grabbing hold of the collar of my jacket, his face so close to mine I could smell the wine on his sour breath. Behind me I could hear my father and the Spaniard calling my name.
“What have the affairs of Mademoiselle d’Alembert to do with you? I am certain that the concern of a young person such as yourself is nothing more than an embarrassment to her.” Montclair spoke slowly, injecting threat into every word. “I advise you to take your leave before I am forced to teach you a lesson you won’t forget.”
He let go of my collar and then stood, chin thrust out and shoulders thrown back, trying to stare me out. At that moment I don’t believe I knew if it was the Prince de Montclair or my brothers whom I attacked. The protests of my father, the Spaniard, and Isabelle, behind me, did nothing to dampen my desire for vengeance. I flung myself at my adversary’s chest and pushed, teeth clenched, with every last ounce of my strength. Although the Prince was taller and stronger, he struggled to find purchase on the wet gravel in his high-heeled shoes. He lost his footing and staggered backward toward one of the fountains. Where the jet of water had splashed over the rim of the basin, a puddle had formed on the ground. I could not resist it. Spinning him around so that the Prince had his back to me, I grabbed hold of him by both elbows, then whispered into his ear, rather more loudly than I had intended: “You should know that Mademoiselle d’Alembert has said she would rather die than have a suitor such as you.”
Without waiting for him to respond, I kicked him in the rear so that he fell forward, face-first, into the dirt. Many of the courtiers let out small ohs, which spread, in an audible, breathy whisper, all around the Colonnade. I watched the Prince push himself up on all fours, his white breeches and pale surtout soiled and wet. He remained there, immobile, for an instant like a cowed beast, and all at once, before I could stop myself, I grunted like a pig. Someone gave a single, nervous laugh. This, in itself, provoked a short-lived wave of snickering. When I grunted again, the whole drunken party erupted with repressed laughter. Montclair stood up and made as if to advance toward me, but saw that my father and the Spaniard had now positioned themselves squarely between us. Nostrils flaring and eyes glassy with rage, he strode off to the opposite side of the Colonnade, stopping when he reached the pillars. There he turned on his heels and hissed like a snake at me. My father and the Spaniard took hold of my arms and marched me out of the grove. I craned around at Isabelle as I was pulled past her. Isabelle returned my gaze, her glittering eyes reflecting the torchlight, though her expression was difficult to read. Her companion, on the other hand, curtseyed deeply, and when she arose she was beaming. Someone, at least, was happy.
VI
I awoke late, feeling like a hero, the morning after my encounter with the Prince de Montclair in the Colonnade. Still, I made a small effort to look contrite when I arrived at the Spaniard’s apartment for my daily tuition. His valet told me, however, that his master had left early on urgent business. It was our custom to start the day with some broth, and as the valet ladled me some into a bowl, in a pointedly offhand manner, there was a look in his eye that said he did not think I deserved it. I did not care. I may only have kicked over an arrogant youth, but I felt as if I had crossed some invisible barrier into manhood. A message had arrived for me, which the valet passed to me with his white-gloved hand. When I discovered it was from Isabelle, I was scarcely surprised: I had defended her honor, after all. Meet me as soon as you can at the Fountain of Apollo. I shall wait for you. My broth was pushed aside and I flew out of the apartment, down the flight of stone stairs, and into the soft morning light.
The gardens of Versailles had been transformed by the prospect of my meeting: I seemed to tread outside the geographic universe. Fine rain cooled my face; blood coursed through my veins; life was about to begin! I wanted that short walk to last forever. The Fountain of Apollo soon came into view, although I was barely conscious of having moved my legs to get there. No jets of white water curved over the circular pond—only the approach of the King miraculously caused every fountain to spout forth. Even so, Apollo, god of the sun, surged up from still, green waters, ready to drive his chariot across the sky.
/>
As I drew closer, I saw that Isabelle was waiting for me on the opposite side of the fountain. Her eyes acknowledged me but she immediately started to walk away, motioning, with a discreet wave of her hand, for me to follow her. Three spaniels, a breed popular with the ladies at court, ran alongside, barking their excitement and pausing to leave their scent on every marble statue we passed. Not once did she turn around, and she walked so briskly a rising anxiety warned me against catching her up. Her full skirts swished and billowed in front of me. When she reached a lightly wooded spot south of the orangery, she stopped to survey the gardens. I halted a few yards behind her and glanced around me. Aside from a Swiss Guard at his post some distance away, there was no one nearby. I understood that she should have been attended by a chaperone and did not wish to be observed talking to me alone. She had taken a risk: I was flattered. I walked up to her and gave a deep bow. It occurred to me that we had never been formally introduced.
“What were you thinking of yesterday evening, Monsieur?” she said tersely. “Your behavior was outrageous.”
Did she toss her curls? I believe she may have done. She was not tender with me. She certainly was not grateful. More to the point, she seemed angry—and I, of course, could not take my eyes from her. It seemed to me that the finest veil of freckles had been smoothed over the ivory skin of her forehead, and the rosy skin of her plump cheeks. Her teeth were white and small.
“Outrageous? But—”
“Is it because you love Mademoiselle de Cluny?”
“No!”
“You do not! Then I am relieved to hear it—as she is betrothed to the English Milord and his two thousand spotted pigs.”