William Boyd - The New Confessions

Thompson had settled into his portliness. It suited him. He was one of those stout men for whom weight loss would be something of an affront, almost indecent. He was rising steadily up the hierachy of the bank and had, I think he told me, just been appointed to the board — hence his decision to get married. I envied him his young eager wife, Heather (who shyly told me how much she had loved Julie) . She was pretty in an innocuous, pinkish way. She fussed nervously over the children, glad to have some diversion. Beside her, Sonia could almost have been described as matronly. For a young woman the beam of Sonia’s hips was unduly broad: her torso seemed to rest on it like an antique bust on a pedestal. She wore dark expensive clothes, sensibly cut, which to some extent disguised her bulk, but she had a solid big-arsed presence these days that slim nervous Heather beside her accentuated. Heather was one of those girls, I could see, whose sunny temperament would not dim even when overshadowed by the grimmest clouds of adversity (she very charmingly rebuffed me some years after when I made a crude and shameful pass at her). I stood with my father and brother — we all stirred cups of tea, held at chest height — and watched the women marshal and drill the children. I think it was then that the last dregs of love I held for Sonia seeped away forever. Why? Why do these things ever happen?… I knew I had Doon now.

I glanced at father. His face was quite expressionless.

“Well, Innes,” I said. “Grand to have the family back together.”

I saw him flinch as I used his Christian name. Thompson called him Daddy — ridiculous in a grown man, I thought.

“Curious names you’ve chosen for your boys,” he said with a trace of a smile. The old bastard. “That would be the Shorrold line, I take it?”

The wedding. It was all right — tolerable. Normally I detest weddings. All that false, timely sincerity nauseates me. Donald and Faye Verulam were there, Donald ever more courteous and patrician, Faye aging with tact and charm. I was safe with Faye now, quite relaxed. Various burly Dale cousins showed up and I was surprised to see that old Sir Hector was still alive. If anything he was in slightly better condition than I remembered him from 1919, when I used to push him round the garden at Drumlarish House. He was swigging sherry and trying to eat crumbling wedding cake when I approached him.

“Grandfather!” I shouted. “It’s me, John James!”

He was appallingly badly shaved and cake crumbs had caught in the bristles. His moist eyes swiveled uncontrollably.

“Johnny. How are you, laddie?”

“Fine, fine.”

“Got a job yet?”

“Yes, yes.” I told myself to stop repeating my answers. I felt an immense sadness descend abruptly on me as I looked at this collapsed old man in his bath chair.

“Great day,” he said.

“It is, it is.”

“Get us another of these wee sherries before my nurse comes back.”

I did, and had a few whiskeys to cheer myself up, which probably explains why I lost control so completely with Oonagh. She had of course been invited to the wedding but obediently filled her role as former family retainer, sitting on a hard chair at the farthest perimeter of the family group. She was drinking tea and had a plate of fancy cakes on her lap when I found her. She was stooped with arthritis and had given up working for my father, unable to climb the stairs anymore. Two walking sticks hung over the back of her chair. She had softened and expanded with age, her hair prematurely wiry and gray. She wore a baggy white blouse, thick skirt and old-fashioned lace-up boots.

“Not too grand to speak to me, then?”

“Don’t be silly, Oonagh.” I gave her a kiss. My voice was trembling. I felt my head bulging with a decade’s unspilled tears, like a ripe melon about to burst. I sensed here, today, my youth and past life falling away for ever. The changes wrought in my six years’ absence were too large and dramatic to be unconsciously assimilated. I had been away too long. The geography of my early life, its fixed points and certainties, was hopelessly out of date now. I was faced only with mutability and decay: to look back, to recall, only emphasized our awful fragility.

“That’s a nice brooch,” I said hoarsely, pointing to a single cairngorm set in silver that Oonagh was wearing at her throat.

“You gave it to me, silly boy.”

My face wrinkled and the tears surged. Shoulders heaving, snorkeling back the rush of phlegm, I wrote out a check for a hundred pounds and pressed it into Oonagh’s astonished hands.

Later, calmer, I had an awkward conversation with Thompson. I think he wanted to be affectionate, but again the years stood between us and we exchanged only platitudes. It was the closest we ever got as adults, however, which is something. This hot fat man is my brother, I said to myself. We can’t ignore these blood ties. I tried. We talked about money. He asked me if I had a lot of capital. I said yes. He looked round and lowered his voice.

“Get it out of Germany, John, please.”

“Why? Things are doing better. I even get paid in American dollars.”

“That’s something. But I’d still shift it. Back here. Or France or Switzerland. It’s sound advice.”

“I’m filming in Switzerland later this year.”

He stepped closer. His hand hovered a moment as if he were going to place it on my shoulder. He let it touch my sleeve lightly, like a leaf.

“Will you do something for me, John?” he asked. “Get your money, in cash, and take it with you to Switzerland. I’ll tell you where to take it.”

I obviously looked skeptical.

“Please,” he said. “Let me set up everything.” He was excited. The smile he gave me was unlike his ordinary weak grin. For an instant I sensed the almost carnal pleasure he took in his job, and why therefore he was such a good banker. For Thompson, nothing else was as much fun as money, and I daresay that included his new wife. I agreed. He promised to send me the details.

“You’ll thank me for this,” he said. “Believe me, John, I know what I’m saying.” He was right. It was the best and only favor he ever did me.

Aram Lodokian — sorry, Eddie Simmonette — had leased the warehouses and workshops of an old military factory in Spandau on the Staaken, which were readily converted into studios. They were devoted exclusively to The Confessions: Part I . There we had three stages of various sizes plus all the technical equipment and expertise we required.

Let me, without preamble, tell of our first day’s shooting as it unfolded to the members of the cast and crew. It will give you the best example of how I conceived The Confessions and how I planned to make it the most extraordinary film in the history of motion pictures. The following account appeared in the August 1927 edition of Kino . My translation.

July 17, 1927. Realismus Studios, Spandau. Seven A.M. Director John James Todd assembles the entire cast and crew of the film on the largest of the studio’s three stages. Everyone is present whether he or she is required for that day or not. They number in all 167 men, women and children. Todd addresses the company, welcomes them to the film and demands total dedication. He stands above the crowd on a scaffolding platform, part of a set representing Mme. de Warens’s bedchamber in her château at Annecy. His voice is clear, his German simple yet full of errors. His curious accent demands extra concentration. He is a dark intense man of average height, somewhat thick-set. His demeanor is one of almost uncontrollable energy and excitement. He tells his audience that they are immensely privileged to be working on what, he assures them with breathtaking confidence, will become the most celebrated film in the history of cinema. Such is his conviction, such the evident pride and exultation in his own face, that this short furious speech is greeted by loud cheering. Some people shed tears. Todd passes through the crowd, men and women press forward to shake his hand and clap him on the shoulders.