Anthony Powell - The Valley of Bones

There could be no doubt that the anonymity of the syndicate system irked Macfaddean. He felt that if another report were made, the second one might be fairly attributed to his own unaided efforts, a matter that could be made clear when the time came. That was plain enough to both Brent and myself. We told Macfaddean that, for our part, we were going to adhere to the plan already agreed upon; if he wished to make another one, that was up to him.

‘Off you go, Mac, if you want to,’ said Brent. ‘We’ll wait for you here. I’ve done enough for today.’

When Macfaddean was gone, we found a place to lie under some withered trees, blasted, no doubt, to their crumbling state by frequent military experiment. We were operating over the dismal tundra of Laffan’s Plain, battlefield of a million mock engagements. The sky above was filled with low-flying aircraft, of outlandish colour and design, camouflaged perhaps by Barnby in a playful mood. Lumbering army reconnaissance planes buzzed placidly backwards and forwards through grey puffs of cloud, ancient machines garnered in from goodness knows what forgotten repository of written-off Governmental stores now sent aloft again to meet a desperate situation. The heavens looked like one of those pictures of an imagined Future to be found in old-fashioned magazines for boys Brent rolled over on his back and watched this rococo aerial pageant.

‘You know Bob Duport is not a chap like you and me,’ he said suddenly.

He spoke as if he had given much thought to Duport’s character; as if, too, my own presence allowed him at last to reach certain serious conclusions on that subject. Regarded by Templer, and Duport himself, as something of a butt — certainly a butt where women were concerned — Brent possessed a curious resilience in everyday life, which his exterior did not reveal. This was noticeable on the course, where, unlike Macfaddean, he was adept at avoiding work that might carry with it the risk of blame.

‘What about Duport?’

‘Bob’s really intelligent,’ said Brent earnestly. ‘No intention of minimising your qualifications in that line, or even my own, but Bob’s a real wonder-boy.’

‘Never knew him well enough to penetrate that far.’

‘Terrific gifts.’

‘Tell me more about him.’

‘Bob can do anything he turns his hand to. Wizard at business. Pick up any job in five minutes. If he were on this course, he’d be the star-turn. Then, girls. They simply lie down in front of him.’

‘I see.’

‘But he’s not just interested in business and women.’

‘What else?’

‘You wouldn’t believe what he knows about art and all that.’

‘He never gave the impression of being that sort.’

‘You’ve got to know him well before he lets on. Have to keep your eyes open. Did you ever go to that house the Duports had in Hill Street?’

‘Years ago, when they’d let it to someone else. I was taken to a party there.’

‘That place was marvellously done up,’ said Brent. ‘Absolute perfection in my humble opinion. Bob’s got taste. That’s what I mean. All the same, he isn’t one of those who go round gushing about art. He keeps it to himself.’

I did not immediately grasp the point of this great buildup of Duport. It certainly shed a new light on him. I did not disbelieve the picture. On the contrary, in its illumination, many things became plainer. Duport’s professional brutality of manner, thus interpreted in Brent’s rough and ready style, might indeed conceal behind its façade sensibilities he was unwilling to reveal to the world at large. There was nothing unreasonable about that supposition. It might to some extent explain Duport’s relationship with Jean, even if Brent’s own connexion with her were thereby made less easy to understand. I thought of the views of my recent travelling companion, Pennistone, so plainly expressed at Mrs Andriadis’s party:

‘… these appalling Italianate fittings — and the pictures — my God, the pictures …’

However, such things were a matter of opinion. The point at issue was Duport’s character: was he, in principle, regardless of personal idiosyncrasy, what Sir Gavin Walpole-Wilson used to call a ‘man of taste’? It was an interesting question. Jean herself had always been rather apologetic about that side of her married life, so that presumably Brent was right: Duport, rather than Jean, had been responsible for the Hill Street decorations and pictures. This was a new angle on Duport. I saw there were important sides of him I had missed.

‘When you last met Bob,’ said Brent, using the tone of one about to make a confidence, ‘did he mention my name to you?’

‘He said you and he had been in South America together.’

‘Did he add anything about me and Jean?’

‘He did, as a matter of fact. I gather there was an involved situation.’

Brent laughed.

‘There was,’ he said. ‘I thought Bob would go round shooting his mouth off. Just like him. It’s Bob’s one weakness. He can’t hold his tongue.’

He sighed, as if Duport’s heartless chatter about his own matrimonial situation had aroused in Brent himself a despair for human nature. He gave the impression that he thought it too bad of Duport. I was reminded of Barnby, exasperated at some woman’s behaviour, saying: ‘It’s enough to stop you ever committing adultery again.’ The deafening vibrations of an insect-like Lysander just above us, which seemed unable to decide whether or not to make a landing, put a stop to conversation for a minute or two. When it sheered off, Brent spoke once more.

‘You said you knew Jean, didn’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Wonderful girl in her way.’

‘Very nice to look at.’

‘For a while we were lovers,’ said Brent.

He spoke in that reminiscent, unctuous voice men use when they tell you that sort of thing more to savour an enjoyable past situation, than to impart information which might be of interest. It must have been already clear to him that Duport had already revealed that fact.

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Bob said that?’

‘He put it more bluntly.’

Brent laughed again, very good-naturedly. The way he set about telling the story emphasised his least tolerable side. I tried to feel objective about the whole matter by recalling one of Moreland’s favourite themes, the attraction exercised over women by men to whom they can safely feel complete superiority.

‘Are you hideous, stunted, mentally arrested, sexually maladjusted, marked with warts, gross in manner, with a cleft palate and an evil smell?’ Moreland used to say. ‘Then, oh boy, there’s a treat ahead of you. You’re all set for a promising career as a lover. There’s an absolutely ravishing girl round the corner who’ll find you irresistible. In fact her knickers are bursting into flame at this very moment at the mere thought of you.’

‘But your description does not fit in with most of the lady-killers one knows. I should have thought they tended to be decidedly good-looking, as often as not, together with a lot of other useful qualities as well.’

‘What about Henri Quatre?’

‘What about him?’

‘He was impotent and he stank. It’s in the histories. Yet he is remembered as one of the great lovers of all time.’

‘He was a king — and a good talker at that. Besides, we don’t know him personally, so it’s hard to argue about him.’

‘Think of some of the ones we do know.’

‘But it would be an awful world if no one but an Adonis, who was also an intellectual paragon and an international athlete, had a chance. It always seems to me, on the contrary, that women’s often expressed statement, that male good looks don’t interest them, is quite untrue. All things being equal, the man who looks like a tailor’s dummy stands a better chance than the man who doesn’t.’