R Raichev - The Death of Corinne

She was going to England to meet Corinne Coreille. Corinne Coreille didn’t know it, not yet. Eleanor felt it imperative that the two of them should meet. Corinne Coreille provided the last existing link with Griff. The link of death. Eleanor thought again of those last terrible moments when the dark red plumes of blood had started spiralling from Griff’s open wrists and spreading about the pale blue bath water like so many clouds of crimson smoke… She wanted to see with her own eyes what kind of a person Corinne Coreille was. This woman who had exercised such power over her son! There was no one else whom she could talk to about Griff. No one who would understand.

None of his boyfriends had been in touch – not one of them had come to the funeral. Certainly not Owen… It was the wrong crowd that had turned up. People she hardly knew. Sanctimonious fools, prurient ghouls – some dubious-looking middle-aged men with moustaches – the English composer, tall, majestic, almost Lear-like with his snow-white beard and locks, weeping extravagantly – he had left a china wreath with a black ribbon that said, Buenas Noches, Bello Diablo – some distant cousin of Eleanor‘s, a woman in a purple hat with a veil, shouting, ‘Why cremation? What’s wrong with a funeral? Now you’ll never know where he’s going!’ It had all been too much.. . Small wonder Eleanor had had a nervous breakdown!

It might be said that Corinne Coreille had sung Griff to death.. . A lethal lullaby… Will it ever cloy? This odd diversity of misery and joy… Eleanor found herself humming under her breath and checked herself. Had there been one particular boy? Somebody who had broken Griff’s heart? (More so than any of his predecessors, that was.) Was that why Griff did it? Or had Griff simply decided that he had had enough, that an existence like his was simply not worth living? Had he chosen that particular song as some ironic final statement, as his high camp coda, a silly requiem emblematic of the pursuits of a silly misspent life? I am feeling young again and quite insane – all because – Or did his death have anything to do with the Lykaion sect and its teachings?

A pampered pansy playboy. That was what her niece had called Griff. Eleanor dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. ‘I have had a tragic life,’ she said. ‘I have remained unfulfilled as a woman and as a mother.’ She found herself thinking back to the day Griff was born. Lyndon – her wayward husband – had not been there. Of course not. Other husbands sat beside their wives’ beds in the maternity ward and held and caressed their hands – but not Lyndon. Lyndon had never been there for her. It had been an incredibly difficult birth. Eleanor had been in labour for forty-eight hours and she had become convinced that Griff didn’t really want to be born. She wondered now whether Griff had struck some sort of a deal, so that he wouldn’t have to stay long on this earth.

But perhaps Griff hadn’t meant to kill himself? That haunting invidious voice might have induced a particularly hopeless mood in him

… Eleanor wondered what Corinne Coreille would have to say in her defence.

She opened her eyes. ‘Chalfont Park, Chalfont Parva, Shropshire, England,’ she said aloud. She was going to Chalfont Park. Some grand house, by the sound of it, what in England they called a manor house. It shouldn’t be too hard to find. Did it belong to Corinne? Or was Corinne going there on a visit? A thought struck her. Could Corinne be running away from her? That suggested not only guilty conscience but fear of retribution! Well, she won’t be able to run away from me, Eleanor thought, and she nodded to herself grimly.

The widow Saverini, she thought. I am the widow Saverini.

It had been quite incredible, the way she had obtained the Chalfont Park address.

She had arrived in Paris, intent on tracking down Corinne Coreille. Of course Corinne Coreille wasn’t listed in the phone book. Eleanor hadn’t expected her to be, really, but an idea had already formed itself in her mind. Sitting in her overheated room at the overpriced Hotel Constantinople, she reached out for the telephone and called Corinne’s record company, Fabiola, whose number zuas in the book. Substituting her genteel English accent for a brasher American one – not that it would have mattered either way – she asked to speak to somebody in the publicity department. A young man – he had sounded like a young man, extremely pleasant as well as flustered, clearly inexperienced – answered and yes, he spoke English. (Most French people operating in the excessive and reality-detached world of le showbiz did.) In the most casual manner imaginable Eleanor had introduced herself as Tricia Swindon, an American chat-show hostess, and had asked for Corinne Coreille’s contact number. For good measure, she had been chewing gum. She had made herself sound ingenuous to the point of naivety – wasn’t that how the French imagined Americans to be?

She had explained that it was a matter of great urgency. She needed to speak to Corinne Coreille in person. She had her own TV show in the USA and she wanted to invite Corinne to appear on it. Corinne Coreille had a great following in the USA. Americans still remembered Corinne Coreille’s concerts at Carnegie Hall in 1974 and 1982. People still talked about her duets with Danny Kaye and Dean Martin. Ah – ‘Amore’! She had babbled on.

She had expected to be referred to Corinne’s agent or somebody, and she couldn’t believe her ears when the young man started dictating Corinne’s home phone number to her. Just like that. Eleanor had been flabbergasted – she had suspected some kind of chicanery, some trick, or indeed a trap… Could the police be monitoring her movements? Had she been given the number of the Surete perhaps?

After some hesitation, Eleanor had rung the number and almost at once a woman’s voice had answered. A maid of some sort, speaking in a very loud voice and with an accent that wasn’t French… Tipsy, by the sound of it… Yes, I speak Ee-nglish. Yes, this is Mademoiselle Coreille’s residence. You want to speak to Mademoiselle Coreille? Oh, but she is away, madame! Mademoisellle Coreille and Maitre Maginot, they leave together for the airport. They leave for England. A contact address? Mademoiselle Coreille, she stays at French embassy in London tonight and tomorrow, then she arrives at Chalfont Park on the evening of 3rd April. Cltalfont Park, that is correct. Eet eez a big house in England… Chalfont Park, Chalfont Parva, Shropshire, England. That is correct. And there was a phone number also, yes.

The phone number followed.

There must be something wrong, surely? It was a trick – must be! Or perhaps not. Oversights did happen. Deliberate misunderstandings, too. Eleanor had suffered at the hands of unreliable – as well as of vengeful – maids, so she knew how it could be. Maids with a grudge were the devil… Yes, the maid might have done just the opposite to what she had been instructed.

Who was Maitre Maginot? Eleanor’s eyelids flickered – closed. For some reason she felt exhausted. She hadn’t yet managed to recover from the jet lag, and now she was on a train, which had never happened before – she hated trains – but she wouldn’t have had it any other way. She wouldn’t have wanted to be like the sage who said, Re imperfecte mortuus sum. Eleanor frowned, suddenly struck by a thought. I died with my purpose unachieved? How could he have said it if he was dead? Was he speaking from the nether world perhaps?

It would be no good going to the French embassy in London and asking to see Corinne Coreille, but Chalfont Park would be a different thing. An isolated manor house… perfect. If she could get there first and see how the land lay… She felt an odd thrill, at the thought of the isolated house. She remembered the tales her uncle, the General, had told her about his experiences in the Korean war, and an image promptly grew in her mind.