The Memory Palace

Treading carefully, like an animal which wishes to hide, he crept to the nearest pair of shutters and pulled on one of them. The window behind it was open and, as he peered in, the smell of the house came to meet him, a blend of dusty warmth, stale incense, roses and her perfume, ‘Sortilège’. The dusky room was crowded with large pieces of furniture and he felt a child’s dread: some other place that he remembered intervened between the room before him and his present intentions. His mother’s house had also been crammed with massive pieces of oak and mahogany; but here were also statues, two gilded and oddly decadent humaniform lamp-bearers, an Ethiopian dwarf and an Egyptian hawk-headed god; and a bronze nude who concealed her pudendum with a caressing hand. The rose-scent came from a bowl of spent and faded beauties whose petals lay scattered on the floor.

He withdrew; pushed the shutter to. Perhaps at the back of the house –

There was no one in the garden at the rear. A mulberry tree filled up most of the yellowed lawn; the flowers in the long beds drooped in the heat and roses scrambled, overtopping a wall. He saw that a part of the area he had first taken for scorched grass was a yellow towel, and walked up to it. Someone had been sunbathing there: a tube of sun cream lay by the towel and the towel itself was spotted with what at first he took for blood, the juice of the mulberries. For a moment he considered the pleasures of eating ripe mulberries in such an advantageous position – they might drop into a waiting mouth – then, looking up into the tree, saw that the mulberries were still green. The stains, then? He shrugged inwardly, turned and walked toward the house.

A porch with benches in it shaded the back door and on one of them stood a red-splashed mixing-bowl. The door itself was open; beyond it a shadowy hall with the inside of the front door at the far end, stairs, open doors to left and right. Guy raised his hand to knock.

He saw Daniel, his second son, walking towards him and was bewildered. Reality intervened; comprehension.

‘Dominic,’ he said. ‘You are Dominic?’

(What would he say, the tall fair-headed boy – Helen’s son – his son – the true love child?)

‘Hi, Dad!’

Guy was shocked: the accent was American. But now the boy was close. What should he have said: ‘My son, my son!’ with tears – of joy? He held his arms out in a gesture of welcome. This boy was taller than Daniel – already. And two years younger? His brain made frantic calculations and Dominic, smiling from Helen’s fathomless brown eyes, walked into his embrace. Kisses, one, two, three – he was almost French. Dominic smiled properly, his teeth virginal and even against his year-round skier’s tan.

‘Mom said you’d be here today,’ he said. ‘She was in the yard, in the garden.’

Guy, overcome at last and assailed by the lost legions of the past, spoke carefully.

‘I am very glad to see you.’

(He has my nose and build, he thought. The rest is Helen.)

‘Great. No problem.’ At least he sounded like a normal teenager. ‘Would you like a drink?’

‘Er, no. I don’t think so.’

‘Later then? You want to see Mom.’

‘I do want to see your mother. Very much.’

‘And you’re worried. I’m what you hoped for, but I’m not. I learned my spoken English from Georges. He was in Chicago for a while.’

‘Georges?’

‘Ma’s Lilo.’

‘What?’

‘Live-in-lover. You know.’

‘Oh. Yes. The butcher.’

‘That’s him, the horse-butcher. She’s in the vardo. You can go there if you like. It’s in the orchard, there’s a gate in the garden wall. See you later!’

A fleeting memory of Alice Tyler jumped at him, and was gone. He forgot her. He was wholly lost, as helpless as he had been years ago, when he had first seen Helen on a country bus and, dismounting at her stop, had followed her – home, as he thought, but actually down a long and winding lane which led eventually into the secretive valley of the little river Char. She had stopped on the pack-horse bridge and waited for him –

Soon afterwards the worst and best ten months of his life had begun.

Now, seventeen years later, he was walking to her through a sunlit afternoon garden in France.

He had wanted to fuck her there and then, in the February snows beside the river, but she, taking him by the hand, had led him to the black-painted vardo in the old cattle-drift, had made him her apprentice. Had made him her slave. It wasn’t till June –

He opened the door in the garden wall. A skewbald horse was grazing in the orchard. The sleeping van, the vardo, stood a little way away, close beside a cherry tree. Ripe fruit brushed its curving roof. It was identical with the original, the one which had burned; an exact copy, down to the golden suns and moons around the door. He panicked. The van was so much like.

Her face, as dark and perfect as it had been that first time, rose up in the doorway. She still had her incredible cataract of hair. It fell straight down from a centre parting and then curled upon her shoulders like water rebounding: the sign of a gypsy sorceress. She leaned upon the half-doors and watched him approach. She said nothing. He trembled in his expensive canvas shoes. She is still dressed, he thought, in that crazily beautiful mix of antique clothes: she is the epitome of a gypsy-woman.

Helen looked down at him.

‘You always come when I call,’ she said.

‘Don’t mock me. I came to see Dominic.’

‘Yes! You came to see the boy.’

Her voice had deepened a little, against his memory.

‘Come in,’ she said, and opened the doors. He stepped up into the van. The interior was dim and heavily perfumed. Her crystal ball and tarot cards lay on the folding table and her lucky chank shell stood on the shelf above the bed; the paperbacks were there as well and, incredibly, a soft leather-covered manuscript book which looked very like the diary of Lèni la Soie. He admired the turned and carved woodwork, the shiny stove and the patterned china; the lace edgings on the sheets and the crocheted bedspread.

‘It’s wonderful,’ he said. ‘It looks the same –’

‘It is the same.’ She gave no explanation but seated herself on the bed and waved a hand toward her chair. He sat down.

‘Now, welcome, Guy. The years between us have vanished today. Our son has brought us both here.’

‘He is a fine young man.’

‘He was born of a sorceress and fathered by a story-teller. Would he be ordinary?’

‘I suppose not.’

Helen stood up to light the oil lamp upon the cupboard. She lifted the lit lamp down and held it by its heavy base; the yellow light illuminated her dark skin and made it glow like burnished bronze. Guy could not see a mark or a line upon her face. Her lips were as softly full as they had been when she was only twenty-two.

‘I am thirty-nine, Guy. Am I still beautiful?’ she asked him.

He breathed in and held the breath a long moment.

‘Yes,’ he said, eventually, when he had studied her as if she were the Mona Lisa or one of Titian’s heavenly nudes. ‘Yes. The only thing which has changed is your voice. It has become melodious, a contralto holding your every experience.’

‘Good. Do you love me, Guy?’

He could not find a ready answer to this question, and hesitated. She intervened.

‘Oh, I know you have “loved” a lot of women.’

He still could not find an answer but, groping in his mind for words, found one he thought might do.

‘I certainly love my memory of you – but when the vardo was burned: at first, I thought you had died in it.’

‘The police did not discover my remains!’

‘But you had gone. I had to reconstruct my life. There was a void in it.’

‘I am glad you no longer love me, Guy, for I have lived with Georges Dinard for nearly ten years and it seems like eternity.’

‘You brought me all the way to France to tell me that?’

‘As you said, you have come to visit Dominic.’

Helen set the lamp on the table and sat close by him on the locker top. He stared at her face, and its shadow which the lamplight threw high up the wall. Her beauty was supernatural; he had never seen another woman close on forty with a face like that. There was no artifice about it, no cutting or stretching, no clever making-up. It was the face of a young woman, and as such puzzled him. She divined his thoughts.

‘If you had come to the house ten minutes earlier, you would have surprised me lying naked in the sun,’ she said, ‘and you would have seen that nothing has changed. You would also have embarrassed me. As you know, Romany women are modest and do not show themselves to strangers.’

‘Helen! You are cruel.’

‘And you are an old philanderer; but you are the father of my son. We will drink a toast to the past at dinner this evening. You’ll stay in the house.’

‘I must fetch my car from the square and I have a – er – companion.’

‘Of course you have. Think of the old days, Guy. You were an adulterer then. I made you one.’

He closed his eyes to avoid her, but could not avoid the things she spoke of and roamed the gallery of his mind, pausing now and then before portraits and pastoral scenes. He saw the dished summit of Karemarn Hill, the craggy circle of hawthorns extending their ragged shadows under the stars; snow, and himself cold, alone. He saw the same trees bright with blossom and a full Spring moon, the twelve naked witch-women dancing round him, backs turned, legs leaping, buttocks muscular, flat, rounded, heavy –

Helen spoke into his echoing mind. ‘Those were the days – of youthful adventures!’ she said. ‘But now you see clearer visions than I do. Why not show me your power? Tell me a story!’

‘Very well.’

His eyes remained closed. It was easier thus to invent, and it prevented him from seeing her burning beauty. He began to tell her a story:

‘Once upon a time, as they say in Malthassa and other unmapped countries of the mind – once, then, upon a fine midsummer’s evening, Koschei came upon Brother Fox perambulating the cloister. He was young and still without discipline and the Brother, whose profession was to instil self- and other disciplines in the novices, was of middle age; but both men felt the lightness and cheer which the warm evening induced. Brother Fox paused so that Koschei could come up with him.

‘“Look, Corbillion,” he said. “Even the moths are hungry – see the fat moon moth feeding on the honesty flowers in the garth, and the night-hawk on the woodbine.”

‘“I,” Koschei responded dreamily, “Do not hunger in that way. Neither marchpane nor sugar, not tender veal nor a bloody beefsteak would satisfy me. I am in love.”

‘The sly Brother held his long sleeve up against his mouth and laughed quietly into it. At length, recovering, he said,

‘“With whom, my Cavalier Corbillion – or am I bold to ask?”

‘“With Woman, with every She, with the Female and the Feminine – the Sex itself,” answered Koschei.

‘“And none of these in particular?”

‘“There is –” Koschei began and, stifling the sentence and the thought that provoked it before they were fully born, began again,

‘“Any,” he said, “would satisfy me tonight – young, old, fair or foul, in her prime or past it.”

‘Brother Fox looked sideways at the young novice and admired the white teeth which gently bit into the fleshy, lower lip, the dark, jutting nose and the black curling hair which, against every rule of the Order, had been teased into ringlets and dressed with perfumed oil. Indeed, the heavy perfume dizzied the monk.

‘“You are an agreeable sight yourself,” he murmured and, speaking more loudly, said,

‘“I know where to find a pretty something which will quench your fire and satisfy your pride. Return secretly to your cell and wait there. When I return with the prize, she shall knock three times.”

‘The newly risen moon shone into the cloister garth and Koschei marvelled as he looked at its unwavering light and at the pallor it lent the bright flowers. Everything, the stones, the plants, the arches of the cloister and their two faces, his and Brother Fox’s, had been turned silver or black. Brother Fox winked lewdly at him, half dispelling the magical mood, and padded off in the direction of the town. Koschei returned silently to his cell.

‘In Espmoss, at the sign of the Rampant Lion in Grope Lane, Brother Fox concluded his negotiations. The midsummer madness was full on him and the moon shone bright in the street outside; or else why did he spend his own coin and risk his reputation for sternness and severity to please his favourite Novice? He had chosen the woman as one might a peach, for colour and ripeness and for the complex odours which assailed his keen nose when he bent his head and applied that huge organ to her silk-shrouded bosom. He pinched Ysera carefully on the buttocks, paid over his silver to the bawd, and brought the wench home to the cloister.

‘Koschei sat quietly on his mattress of straw and thought about Woman, soft where he was hard, tender where he was vigorous, submissive where he was masterful. The moon shone on his windowsill and a narrow ray of its light penetrated the cell and lit a square of flagstones by the door. At length, that door was thrice tapped and a scented, warm and breathing bundle of silks propelled into the room by the plump hand of Brother Fox. The door closed. Koschei did not hear Brother Fox’s footsteps as he walked away; the monk might still be eaves- or, rather, hinge-dropping, peering through the crack with a hot and beady eye. Koschei did not care: Ysera stood before him, packed in her silks like a surprise parcel. She had on a veil, and a wrapper of silver, but her face was dark like his and her veilings shrouded her upper body only for her lower was encased in tight trousers which shimmered as she gently moved, eyeing him. He had never before seen a woman trousered. The sight was almost too much for him. Her curves, her differences, her fascinating sex, all were revealed as the garment writhed and glittered with her movements which, every second, became bolder and more seductive.

‘“I dance for you,” she whispered.

‘Koschei reached out and took her in his arms. He untied her first veil, and her second, and kissed her on the lips. Then, turning his head the better to kiss her tiny, right ear, he saw a shadow tremble and settle itself across the square of moonlight on the floor. The Fox! But wait – it was no man’s shadow, being female and at once sinuous and slender. For a moment he thought it must belong to Ysera but, no, her shadow and his were twined together at the edge of the room. His ardour faded, his desire fell away; he did not kiss the ear of the pretty whore in his embrace but pushed her from him and stared into the night beyond the window, where stood the owner of the intrusive shadow –

‘A woman, leaning casually against the tracery. She was naked and her long hair fell down her back in a great cascade and was as white and pallid as the moon’s light; she had her back to him and her hands were upraised to her head, one holding a brush and the other a comb. All Koschei’s passion and his firm resolve deserted him. He did not want Ysera nor any other woman, kind or cruel, but this one, this enigma who stood so carelessly outside his window, and he concentrated on the splendour of her hair. He wished to kneel down and worship this Unknown and felt his heart and soul dance merrily together in his chest.

‘“You must go,’ he told Ysera and threw her silks back at her. “Go!”

‘“But, lord,” she said entreatingly, “Oh new Beloved, Best of Men – Bright Youth, how can I leave such a one as you before I have seen the manner of your make?”

‘“Go to the Brother who brought you here. His appetite surely exceeds mine now; he will satisfy you lickerishness.”

‘“Very well.” Ysera bowed her head. “Yet – be blessed, young Novice, and enjoy whatever life brings henceforward – even your pain and your longing which, I see, is for the unattainable and not for common women like myself. Farewell.”

‘“Good bye,’ said Koschei, hardly aware of her going.

‘Now the door was shut and he alone again; but with this dream, this vision, at his window. Should he call out to it, approach it – touch it through the unglazed window-arch? He knelt on his mattress and held up his hands in prayer. The Unknown stirred and, as she turned toward him, let down her hair to cover her nakedness. He recognized her, his sister-neophyte, Nemione Sophronia, chaste star and lodestone of the novice-class, daughter of the town’s chief magistrate, Ninian Baldwin.

‘Koschei shivered on trembling knees and felt his whole body shake. For an instant she was there, solid, tangible – but he would never be able to prove that now – and then she was gone. No one was there in the cloister outside the window, nothing but the arabesques of stone and the empty roundels carved by chaste monks long ago; nothing but the moonlight setting the cloister garden ablaze with its consuming, dazzling white light. He looked down and saw that, although Nemione had disappeared, her shadow still lay on the floor of his cell. Marvelling, exhausted, he stretched himself out beside it, laid one hand on the shadow’s empty breast and slept the heavy, sweat-exuding sleep of the damned. But, in her own cell, the false Novice of the Order and true of the magic Arts woke still and –’

Guy faltered and stopped speaking. Opening his eyes, he saw the dimly lit interior of the vardo and the gypsy, Helen Lacey, who touched his lips with a cold forefinger and said,

‘Amen! But softly now; be still.’

His head swam. She, as enigmatic and beautiful as his creation, Nemione, smiled with a dozen curved and lovely sets of lips. The mirrorwork on her bodice reflected his myriad dazed faces.

‘I’ll be all right in a minute,’ he said. ‘It’s nerves.’

‘You are all right now.’

He felt steady, back at the reins. She, he realized, had willed him calm.

‘Shall I go on?’

‘No. I have enough – it is old stuff, that.’

‘Yes, from Koschei’s First Pilgrimage.’

‘Old matter,’ Helen mused, ‘ancient and far-off, full of the magic of your fantasies, Nemione and Koschei compounded of my dreams and yours. Us. We, as we were but are no more. You and I as we might be if – if all the world were paper and every tree had golden leaves and every flower a pearl at its heart. If. But. To no purpose. Besides, Koschei is not in the Cloister. He is in the Forest.’

He did not understand and continued to stare at her, mesmerized by her dark eyes. He used to call them ‘snake’s eyes’. They were still that, bottomless pools in which he saw the tiny twin images of himself.

‘My Love,’ he whispered. ‘My one Truth.’

Helen’s breathing changed: the even gusts became deep snatching breaths.

‘Don’t!’ she cried. ‘Is it not enough to have possessed my body a hundred times, and my soul with your words?’

He looked away, at her velvet skirt, her rings, her soft, mirrored breast to which, he noticed, was pinned a small, gold cross. It looked gimcrack and poor amongst the finery; but such, he thought, was once my talisman too. He should ask her why she wore it there, beside the pagan glories, but something else distracted him: a thin sliver of light had pierced the darkness of her bed beside him. It was moonlight, the moonlight he had conjured in his tale and so, since the curtains which covered the window over the bed were only half-drawn, it had crept into and enchanted the small, close room, touching the many crystals there, the looking glasses, the glossy china and Helen’s agonized face.

‘Leave my vardo now,’ she commanded. ‘Before it is too late.’

She folded her hands in her lap and bowed her head. He thought, I cannot bear to go; but I must. The intimacy of mind is over, she has some other task and does not want me here, a distraction – at least I am that. Should I return to Dominic? – and Alice. The remembrance of Alice’s youth flowed into and tantalized him. He had abandoned her in the afternoon; hours had passed.

He stood up, unfolding his body with care.

‘You feel your age,’ said Helen. ‘Never mind: those aches and pains will pass. She helps.’ Though he looked at her when she spoke, she kept her eyes downcast. Perhaps she was able to see him, all the same? And who did she mean by ‘she’? – herself, Nemione, or the bright moon?

‘Dominic will show you your room,’ she said.

She did not speak again nor seem inclined to speak, though he waited. He sighed and left her, descending the three wooden steps of the vardo into an orchard bewitched by night and by the scents of honeysuckle and tobacco flowers. The other perfume, ‘Sortilège’, the distillation of their vanished hours together was in his pocket. He took it out and left it on the top step. The house, too, was quiet and shadow-haunted. He found his way along the hall and opened the door on the left, the one which had first disgorged and brought him Dominic.

The bright light startled him. A nocturnal creature, an old badger caught in headlights, he stood still and blinked rapidly. Alice and Dominic were sitting side by side on a big sofa, cans of beer and Coke on a coffee table in front of them. The television was on. Dominic turned lazily and smiled at him; Alice was also smiling.

‘She kept you ages!’ Alice said. ‘There must have been a lot to talk about.’

‘Seventeen years’ worth,’ he said. He could not begin to tell what had really taken place.

‘And now you are tired?’ his son said. The innocent remark pressed a trigger in him, resentment at their sparkling, hopeful youth.

‘Where did you find her?’ he testily asked Dominic.

‘In the square. She was guarding your mean machine. You should have brought them both with you, up to the house, Dad –’ (Guy winced at the familiarity) ‘–You’d left the keys in her. It was too much: I drove her round for you – she’s on the drive.’ He rolled sideways in his seat and extracted Guy’s keys from his pocket. ‘There you go – Dad.’

‘Thank you.’ Guy took the keys and stowed them deep and safe, in his own pocket. ‘I suppose you can drive – surely you’re not old enough?’

‘Oh, I’m old enough. I’m not old enough to be on the road by myself, that’s all.’

Guy perceived that he was frowning. Alice looked up at him, such a melting look of pure azure tenderness. If she went on with it, he would be embarrassed in front of his own son.

‘I’ll go and see what damage you’ve done,’ he said. ‘I’ll take a walk before I crawl into my bed – you won’t mind amusing Alice for a little longer.’

‘Oui, Papa!’ The boy was still grinning. No one should have such perfect teeth, Guy thought. He could not help grinning back and so retreated, disturbed, abashed. He let himself out by the front door. How stupid to let his exuberance irritate me, he thought, and felt a new surge of annoyance when he saw the Audi, perfectly parked with all its windows closed and its doors locked. He peered through the windscreen. Nothing was damaged. He walked round the car gently kicking its tyres.

At least the absurd confrontation, if that was what it had been, had put his refreshed desire for Alice back to sleep.

– But he had forgotten to ask where he was to sleep. And she?

He walked past the church and on, beyond the confines of the village. The road led to St Just and the Burgundy Canal. Maybe he would go as far as the water, see what a French cut looked like by night. He was walking roughly north-east, away from the route nationale, away from the autoroute. He passed beneath some evergreens. Their clean scent was unavoidable and he inhaled it pleasurably. The trees hung low over the road and, looking at them against the dark backdrop of the sky, he puzzled at their shape and wondered were they cedars? cypresses? The moon must have set, already. Then what time was it? He consulted his watch, pulling back his sleeve and holding the small dial on his wrist close to his face. Without his glasses he was blind, in this respect. Yet this quiet was what he needed, an interval to stroll in, a period of time alone between Helen and Alice, before bed, before the question of Alice’s bed came up. He was still staring into the additional night of the trees when a soft noise behind him made him turn his head. The noise was scarcely audible, like someone trying to move silently and avoid breathing.