Barbara Cleverly: Strange Images of Death

‘Well, I can’t say I’ve been overjoyed to meet you- so far! But thanks for the advice. I’ll be sure to hail a British bobby from a safe distance in future … Like the width of the Atlantic. Shall we start over?’

Orlando gave a nervous burst of laughter. ‘Nat, you twerp! You were doing that gesture again, I’ll bet! That affected business with your hands. You’ll have to forgive him, Joe-he gets carried away. Nat’s one of those photographer chappies. He’s incapable of looking at any new face or vista without framing it.’ Orlando put up his hands, made a box shape and pretended to peer through it. ‘Like this.’

‘No, no, Orlando!’ the American said in exasperation. ‘You’re just not seeing what I’m seeing. You haven’t noticed it, have you? Perhaps you’re too accustomed to the sight of this man’s face?’

‘Ugly brute to meet for the first time in a dark corridor, I agree,’ said Orlando peering uncertainly at Joe. ‘And perhaps I should have said something.’ The American sighed. ‘Permit me, Sandilands?’ He carefully put up the edge of his hand again, centring on Joe’s nose, and turned it like a flap from side to side. ‘I caught sight of you lit up in the doorway. See that, Orlando? This side you’ve got light, this other darkness. We’ve got ourselves a Janus … a Lucifer in mid-fall … an Oxymoron of War … I’m assuming it is war we have to thank for this fascinating rearrangement of your physiognomy?’

‘Oh, come on, Nat! He’s just a bloke, you know,’ Orlando protested. ‘A bit battered but then so are thousands like him … nothing out of the ordinary for an Englishman of his age. You’ll pass a dozen in worse condition between the Ritz and Boodle’s.’

The photographer raved on: ‘If I put a high wattage bulb over him, up here-’ an elegant hand indicated a spot to the right and above Joe’s head-‘you can imagine the drama! No-a daguerrotype! Old-fashioned perhaps and a pain in the neck to perform but this face is worth the bother. Nothing like them for portraits, you know.’

‘Do leave it for later, Nat!’ Orlando pleaded and turned to Joe. ‘He sees everything in black and white, don’t you know. Only to be expected when he spends the hours of daylight squinting through a viewfinder and the hours of darkness closeted away in some garde-robe developing the stuff. I reckon all those chemicals he uses are softening his brain.’ He grinned at the American, who grinned back cheerfully.

A face much more fascinating than his own, Joe decided now his eyes had readjusted. The smooth tanned oval was framed by an explosion of dark hair which curled in corkscrews, unrestrained by scissors, brilliantine or even a comb, Joe guessed. Startling enough and some preparation for the majesty of the nose which would not have disgraced an eagle owl or a Pathan warrior. But the first intimidating effect was countered by the warmth of the eyes. They disarmed. Deep-set and dark, they shone with humour and were fringed by lashes of an extravagance any cover girl would have envied.

What had Joe called him? ‘A lascar thug’. He regretted the jibe. It was a common enough insult back home in the London docklands where these tough Eastern seamen had acquired a certain reputation for lawlessness and skill with the knife, but this man, by all appearances, could indeed have his origins in the Middle-or even farther-East.

‘I say-do forgive me for implying …’

‘I didn’t take it personally. I’m not from Alaska,’ came the easy response.

He waited for Joe’s jaw to drop and added: ‘But if your reference was to Al Askar and the ruffians who go by that name-well, I guess that’s kind of flattering. It means “a soldier”, they tell me. In Persian. Can’t say I’ve ever been called a soldier before-in any language.’

So why, Joe wondered, was this intelligent and professional man parading about in his present costume? He glanced with some distaste at the baggy black cotton trousers, the chest-hugging, collarless shirt-also in black-and the black rope-soled espadrilles. All bought in the local market, Joe supposed, and more suited to one of the fishermen who lounged along the sea front at Collioure. Well, Orlando and his smart artist friends set a standard of flamboyant eccentricity a humble photographer might find hard to emulate. Tricking himself out as a devil-may-care cut-throat must be his way of keeping his end up. It was all a house-party game. Tedious stuff! Joe wondered briefly what gambit a humble policeman might use for the same purpose and resolved to annoy them all by simply changing his white shirt for an even crisper white shirt and polishing his already shiny shoes.

He smiled and, perfectly ready to offer himself to the assembled company as a source of derision or even a comic turn should that be what tickled their fancy, he straightened his Charvet cravat, smoothed down the pocket flaps of his linen jacket and moved off down the corridor. Joe Sandilands was used to singing for his supper.

It was lucky some sharp-eared child had heard the car horn, Joe reckoned, as he made his way along several corridors, or they’d have wandered the maze like Theseus without the benefit of a ball of wool. He noted, as they passed, the contents of the one or two rooms whose doors were open. Mainly they were used as storage for mouldering sports equipment, artists’ easels and encrusted palettes, children’s toys. One contained nothing but an array of stuffed boars’ heads and long-dead birds in glass cases.

At last they came out into what Orlando had called ‘the refectory’. A word that hardly did it justice, Joe considered. This was the grand hall of a very grand castle. The intimidating space soared to a height of three storeys and was lit by windows contrived at three levels from ground to ceiling. Light was flooding in boldly through the topmost rank of windows, the ancient, lead-paned glass filtering and distorting it into ripples which moved along the stone walls, washing them in southern warmth. The harshness of the limestone was further softened by tapestries and hangings quite ragged enough to be genuinely centuries old.

While the children trooped straight in followed by Nathan, Orlando paused with Joe in the arched doorway and watched his face, waiting for his reaction.

‘Well, I never!’ murmured Joe. ‘Sorry! I’ll think of some more intelligent response when my brain’s adjusted to all this grandeur.’ And, feeling that a more appreciative response was expected: ‘Stunning! Simply stunning! I say-these tapestries are certainly eye-catching. Could they possibly be …?’

‘As ancient as they look and worth a fortune,’ said Orlando. ‘Thought you’d like them.’

Though threadbare in places and greying with age, the greens, the violets and the turquoise blues of Aubusson still told their stories. Joe’s eye was caught and held by the small fierce eye of a wild boar cornered in a forest glade.

Powerful and utterly fearless, the splendid animal was rounding on his tormentors. In the next tapestry, he was lying, spectacular in death, a prize at the feet of a lusty royal huntsman. The scenes of venery were interspersed with scenes of courtly life: feasting, dancing, flirting and the playing of instruments most of which were unfamiliar to Joe. Hairy satyrs tootled roguishly on pipes making maidens swoon with delight. Maidens strummed on viols-if those pot-bellied instruments were viols-and youths fainted at their feet. The long-dead participants, apart from the satyrs, were universally young and handsome. Joe’s impression was a blend of dark eyes, expressive hands, muscular thighs, winking jewels around swan necks, white coifs and rich attire.

‘Wonderful, aren’t they?’ said Orlando. ‘Woven especially for this château-for this very room in fact. I’ll introduce you to the Shades of the Castle later. First you must meet the present incumbents. Not so aristocratic, I’m afraid-you’ll be looking at them for a long time before you spot a tiara or a garter amongst them. And the standard of courtly manners is sadly eroded, you’ll find. Still-you’ll probably hold your end up … I say …’ The normally urbane Orlando was disconcerted to be found speaking disparagingly of his fellows but he soldiered on apologetically: ‘Not sure what you might be expecting but … they are a bit of a mixed crowd, you know. One thing they all have in common is-they know their mind and they speak it. Without fear or favour or regard for authority, if you know what I mean?’