William Boyd - The New Confessions

The solution to this problem came so swiftly that I was baffled that it had not struck anyone before. If I could not extend the dimensions of the camera lens and thereby extend the dimensions of the screen, I would simply multiply the options available to me: I would use three cameras, five cameras, synchronize their images and project them on a corresponding number of adjacent screens. I had a sudden vision of my cinema of the future. We would sit the audience in a round amphitheater, hemmed in by a circular screen. Jean Jacques’s walk could span 360 degrees.…

But this was far away. I sat down with my cameraman, Horst Immelman, to work out the practicalities (there is not much to say about Horst — in his forties, genial, efficient, an artisan deluxe). We quickly realized that the best we could achieve was the linking up of three cameras, otherwise synchronization, image adjustment and continuity would prove nightmarishly complicated. Horst thought a prototype could be rigged up in a month. I went to Eddie to convince him we should use it. He at once saw the immense advantages the device would bring, but pointed out that we would have to adapt the world’s cinemas too, if it was to be worthwhile. It was a fair point. In the end it was decided that I would shoot some scenes with the Tri-Kamera (as it was now known) and — this was Eddie’s idea — Realismus would adapt key cinemas for premiere, trade and publicity screenings. He enthused about my invention but for the wrong reason. He saw it as a spectacular publicity stunt and was indifferent to the aesthetic potential. We — Horst and I — went away with a revised budget and shooting schedule. I would refilm two scenes — Rousseau’s walk to Savoy and his first meeting Mme. de Warens — and use the Tri-Kamera on two new ones: the cherry-picking incident and Rousseau’s forlorn departure from Les Charmettes and arrival in Paris. If the device worked, and public response was favorable, we would look at expanding the Tri-Kamera sequences in Parts II and III .

And so we were set to go again. The rest of the year lay before me, planned and funded. Spring and summer in Geneva, Annecy and Chambéry. The autumn taken up with shooting the Tri-Kamera scenes. Winter, back in Spandau for interiors. My new delivery date was July 1, 1929. Part II would commence in the autumn of that year.

Before we left for France I asked Doon to marry me but, typically, with my usual impulsive stupidity, chose entirely the wrong moment. I was at her apartment; we had just made love. I got dressed to go out and buy some cigarettes. As I took my coat and hat from the stand in the hall I saw an unfamiliar paisley-patterned fine-wool scarf hanging there. I picked it up and smelled it. Hair oil and cigars … I replaced it and went out. Somehow I purchased cigarettes.

Mavrocordato.

Mavrocordato had been to the apartment. I could see the scarf round his thick neck. I issued a series of instructions to myself as I walked back from the tobacconist’s kiosk, all to do with calmness, logic, dispassion, self-respect, but I promptly forgot them all as I stepped back inside.

Doon called, “Hurry up with those cigarettes!”

I took Mavrocordato’s scarf off the hook and put it in my pocket. I went into the bedroom and tossed a packet of cigarettes onto the bed. Doon sat up to reach them, exposing her breasts as she leaned forward. I dangled the scarf in front of her. She looked up.

“Mavrocordato’s been here, hasn’t he?”

“Yes.” She was candid, unshaken.

I felt my eyes heavy with tears. “He forgot his scarf. You should be more careful.”

“No, it’s not.”

“What?”

“Not his scarf. The plumber who came on Monday — no, Tuesday — left it.”

“The plumber …”

“Well done.”

“But you did say Mavrocordato had been here.”

“Yes.”

I felt all my anger turn in midair like a boomerang and head back towards me.

“What the hell for?” I asked. “I mean, what bloody right does he have …? What about my feelings, for God’s sake?”

“We had a chat. Christ, I was married to him, you know.”

I sat down on the bed and took her hand.

“Doon, I want you to marry me. I beg you. Let’s get married.”

“No. I don’t want to get married again. Once was enough. Not to anyone. Not even you.”

She freed her hand from mine, lit her cigarette and lay back in the bed.

“Why should we get married? Aren’t you happy?”

“Of course I am. That’s why.”

“Well, let’s leave it at that.”

“I forbid you to see that … that big hairy shit again.”

“No, you don’t. I like him. I’ll see him if I want to. You don’t need to be there. For God’s sake, don’t be stupid, Jamie. Anyway, you’re married already.”

Why can’t we be content with the way things are? Is it a basic human failing, this constant need to improve your life?… Is there a deep atavistic dream, which we all cherish, that however settled and content our life seems to be, it can with more effort be a little bit better? Chimeras, mirages, illusions — not to be trusted. Why did I keep pushing Doon this way? Why did I keep pushing myself? Everything was fine until I unilaterally decided it could be better. That night I kept on at her, pleading the case for matrimony with keening insistence. It became very boring for her. We snapped at each other, we argued. Then I apologized and tried to calm down, but the evening was ruined. My tone had been wheedling, selfish. Doon was right, damn her; my arguments could get no forensic purchase.

Shortly after that abortive proposal, I came home one night at about half past eight. Sonia was in the kitchen talking to Lily. I went upstairs without greeting her. It must have been about half past nine. In the upstairs corridor I saw Vincent peering through the half-opened door to the boys’ bedroom.

“Get to bed.” I warned.

“Daddy, Hereford won’t talk to me.”

“He’s a sensible boy. He’s gone to sleep.”

I ushered Vincent back into the room and helped him into bed. Then I went over to Hereford’s cot. He was lying on his back, one arm thrown high, two glistening streams of snot trailing from his nostrils. I took out my handkerchief to wipe his lip clean. The instant I touched him I knew he was dead. He was barely warm. I picked him up and his head fell back. A curious gurgling sound came from his throat. I kissed his face, the tears running freely from my eyes, and laid him back down again. I went over to Vincent, got him out of bed and led him from the room.

Hereford’s cold had lingered on, turned into a bad cough, gone away and returned again. He did not seem to mind. To him, I suppose, it was just another couple of orifices — nose and mouth — excreting in concert with his nether ones. He was three years old.

VILLA LUXE, June 23, 1972

What can I say about Hereford? I think, I believe, I sincerely believe that everything might have been different had he lived. But I can’t be sure . I can’t be sure of anything. Hamish would agree with that conclusion. All I’m left with is a sentimental aggregate of fond recollections and wishful thinking. I know only that I loved that small boy in a different way from my other children. There was something in me that responded to his anarchic clumsy presence no matter how irritated and preoccupied I was. And then he was gone.

Is this the sort of occasion when a human life (mine) takes a quantum leap? One of those sudden jumps, an abrupt discontinuity that changes everything? Nothing was quite the same after Hereford died; the world had a different tinge and texture. From where do we get this funny idea that order, causality, sense and continuity should necessarily prevail in the world in which we humans live and breath? Yes, I thought, I can see how this place is governed by chance and random change, having just been the victim of a particularly brutal one. I can understand now how visions of discontinuity and plurality fit my experience better than ideas of order and deliberateness. We don’t know anything for certain. We can’t determine anything. We function solely on terms of hopeful probability. It worked this way before; maybe it will again. But don’t count on it.