Anthony Powell - Temporary Kings

‘The Conference, and your visit?’

‘Yes, yes. That is what I mean. Have you run across Dr Belkin? He is familiar to me only by name, through certain cultural societies to which I belong. By an unhappy mischance, we have never set eyes on each other, though we have corresponded — on cultural matters, of course. He was, incidentally, a mutual friend of poor Ferrand-Sénéschal. How sad that too. I am, of course, not sure that Dr Belkin will have been able to put in an appearance. He could have become too much occupied in the cultural affairs of his own country, in which he plays a central part. They may not have been able to spare him at the last moment. He is a busy man. Belkin? Dr Belkin? Have you heard anything of him, or seen him?’

I was about to answer that the name was unknown to me, when Pamela, overhearing Widmerpool’s strained, eager tone, got her word in first. She turned from where she stood with Gwinnett, looked straight at her husband, and laughed outright. It was not a friendly laugh.

‘You won’t find your friend Belkin here.’

She spoke under her breath, almost in a hiss, still laughing. Widmerpool’s face altered. He swallowed uneasily. When he replied he was quite calm.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What I say.’

‘You only know about Belkin because you’ve heard me refer to him.’

‘That’s sufficient.’

‘What information have you got regarding him then?’

‘Just what you’ve told me. And a few small items I’ve picked up elsewhere.’

‘But I haven’t told you anything — I — that was what I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘You don’t have to.’

‘Why should you think he won’t be here? You don’t know him personally any more than I do. Nothing I’ve said gave you any reason to draw that conclusion. Only quite a recent development makes me want to meet him rather urgently.’

‘It wasn’t what you said. It was what Léon-Joseph said.’

Considering the circumstances, Widmerpool took that comment stoically, though he was showing signs of strain.

He seemed to want most to get to the bottom of Pamela’s insinuation.

‘He told you this before he …’

Widmerpool put the question composedly, as if what had happened to Ferrand-Sénéschal did not matter much, only out of respect he did not name it.

‘No,’ said Pamela, also speaking quietly. ‘He told me after he’d died, of course — Leon-Joseph appeared to me as a ghost last night, and gave the information. He was gliding down the Grand Canal, walking on the water like Jesus, except that he was carrying his head under his arm like Mary Queen of Scots. I recognized the head by those blubber lips and rimless spectacles. The blubber lips spoke the words: “A cause de ses sentiments stalinistes, Belkin est foutu.”’

Widmerpool appeared more disconcerted by the implications of Pamela’s words than resentful of their ironic intonation. She said no more for the moment, returning to Gwinnett, who had politely moved a little to one side, when she broke off to take part in this last interchange. He must by then know for certain she was engaged with her husband. Opportunity was now more available than earlier to estimate Pamela’s potentialities. This readiness of Gwinnett’s to withdraw into the background showed comprehension. Widmerpool again thought things over for a moment. Then he made a step in his wife’s direction. Once more Gwinnett moved away. Widmerpool was fairly angry now. Anger and fright seemed to make up his combined emotions.

‘If this is true — Léon-Joseph really told you something of the kind before he died — why on earth didn’t you pass it on?’

‘Why should I?’

‘ Why should you ?’

‘Yes?’

Widmerpool, almost shaking now, was just able to control himself.

‘You know its importance — if true … which I doubt… the whole point of making this contact… the consequences … you know perfectly well what I mean …’

It looked as if the consequences, whatever they were likely to be, remained too awesome to put into words. Pamela turned her head away, and upward. Resting lightly the tips of her fingers on her hips, she leant slowly back on her heels, revealing to advantage the slimness of her still immensely graceful neck. She tipped her head slightly to one side, apparently lost once more in fascination by the legend of Candaules and Gyges . Widmerpool could stand this treatment no longer. He burst out.

‘What are you looking at? Answer my question. This is a serious matter, I tell you.’

Pamela did not reply at once. When she did so, she spoke in the absent strain of someone who has just made an absorbing discovery.

‘There’s a picture up there of a man exhibiting his naked wife to a friend. Have you inspected it yet?’

Widmerpool did not reply this time. His face was yellow. The look he gave her suggested that, of all things living, she was the most abhorrent to him. Pamela continued her soft, almost cooing commentary, a voice in complete contrast with her earlier sullenness.

‘I know you can’t tell one picture from another, haven’t the slightest idea what those square, flat, brightly coloured surfaces are, which people put in frames, and hang on their walls, or why they hang them there. You probably think they conceal safes with money in them, or compromising documents, possibly dirty books and postcards. The favourite things you think it better to keep hidden away. All the same, the subject of this particular picture might catch your attention — for instance remind you of those photographs shut up in the secret drawer of that desk you sometimes forget to lock. I didn’t know about them till the other day. I didn’t even know you’d taken them. Wasn’t that innocent of me? How Leon-Joseph laughed, when I told him. You were careless to forget about turning the key.’

Widmerpool had gone a pasty yellowish colour when his wife quoted Ferrand-Sénéschal’s alleged conjecture about Dr Belkin’s reasons for absenting himself from the Conference. Now the blood came back into his face, turning it brick red. He was furious. Even so, he must have grasped that whatever had to be said must wait for privacy. He made a powerful effort at self-control, which could not be concealed. Then he spoke quite soberly.

‘You don’t know how things stand, why it was necessary for me to come here. When you do, you will see you are being rather silly. There have been unfortunate developments certainly, absurd ones. Even if Belkin does not turn up, there will be a way out, but, if he is here, that will be easier. We’ll have a talk later about the best way of handling matters. This may concern you as much as me, so please do not be frivolous about it.’

Pamela was uninterested.

‘I haven’t the least idea what matters need handling. Oh, yes — the picture on the ceiling? You mean that? You want more explanation? Well, the wife there, whose husband arranged for his chum to have a peep at her in that charming manner, handled things by getting the chum who’d enjoyed the eyeful to do the husband in.’

She looked about for Gwinnett again. He was on the other side of the room, in front of a highly coloured piece of Venetian eighteenth-century sculpture, torso of a Turk. Gwinnett was examining the elaborate folds of the marble turban. Pamela went to join him. There could be no doubt she was interested in Gwinnett. What had taken place between the Widmerpools had attracted no attention from surrounding members of the Conference, nor Bragadin guests. Gwinnett himself could hardly have failed to notice its earlier pungency, but may not have caught the drift. Pamela might well be on her way to give him an account of that. Perhaps his Trapnel studies had prepared him for something of the sort; perhaps he supposed this the manner English married couples normally behaved. Considering the things said, both Widmerpools could have appeared outwardly unruffled, the colour of Widmerpool’s face reasonably attributable to the heat of the day, and texture of his clothes. He still seemed uncertain whether or not his wife had spoken with authority on the subject of Belkin. He looked at her questioningly for a second. When he turned to me again, his thoughts were far away.