Forrest Leo - The Gentleman

‘I believe that is so, sir.’

‘Well, then what am I to do?’

‘You could try telling her brother, sir.’ Him again.

‘No one has seen her brother in two years!’

‘You could write him a letter, sir, as Miss Elizabeth suggested. Your wife used to do so frequently. She sent letters to the last town in which he was seen, in hopes that he would receive them upon his emergence from the wilderness.’ I didn’t know that. I was not aware Vivien had any correspondents.

‘I can’t put it in a letter,’ I say. I recall my brief cheer at sending him one line about diabolical abduction; it now seems childish.

‘You would feel better, I think, if you did.’

‘I can’t!’ I cry. ‘Look, Simmons, if he were here, I’d tell him — I don’t know how, but I would find a way. But Simmons, HE ISN’T HERE!’

Before Simmons can reply, the doorbell rings.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ he says, and goes to answer it.

I am left alone with my thoughts and my wife’s poems. I pick them up and begin to read. They are very good. They are mystical in subject, but only just. They are not the maudlin, self-pitying things you would expect. They are vigorous and feather-light and impossibly quick-minded, and unlike my own verse their quickness does not disguise want of depth. She writes of joy and wonder and sunrises and adventure, and through it all are somehow answers to life’s mysteries, though even suggesting such a thing sounds silly from my pen. It is the sort of poetry I admired when I was younger and somehow forgot about along the way. I find that I cannot see the words through my tears. I must get hold of myself. I try hitting my head against the desk again. The pain gives me at least something to grab onto.

I hear Simmons open the door, and I hear a booming voice I do not recognise call, ‘VIV! VIVIEN! VIIIIIVIEN!’ The whole house shakes as someone very large jogs down the hall. Then the door to my study bursts open and Ashley Lancaster bounds into the room.*

He is scruffy, sunburnt, dressed immaculately in evening clothes, and the most enormous man I have ever seen. He must be six and a half feet tall, and so broad he has to turn sideways to fit through the door frame.*

He is, if anything, handsomer than the papers would lead you to believe. His face is wide and ingenuous, his nose is small, his blond hair comes to a rakish widow’s peak. He has premature crow’s-feet from squinting in glacial sunlight, and small wrinkles at the corners of his mouth from smiling too much. His eyes are the same piercing blue as his sister’s and radiate goodwill. He is in his early thirties.

‘Hello!’ he bellows upon seeing me. I rise, alarmed. ‘My God, you must be Savage!’ he goes on, his voice rattling the paintings on the wall. ‘It’s a pleasure, sir, truly a pleasure! Viv’s told me all about you in her letters!’

He sweeps me up into a bone-crushing embrace, releases me, and kisses me soundly on the mouth. I had not expected that.

All I can manage is a shaky ‘Hello,’ as I wipe his saliva from my lips.

‘I’m sorry, old boy,’ he says, ‘I’m accustomed to the customs of Krakatoa!’ He claps me on the back so hard I nearly fall. His hands are like shovels. ‘Afraid my manners have seen better days! Always like this when I get back from a trip. I’ll be up to snuff and fit for polite company in a week or two. In the meantime I thought I’d stay with you, if you don’t mind. My parents aren’t fond of the re-entry process, truth be told. But this is all for later, by Christ! Where’s my sister! Viv! VIVIEN!’

I am too shocked to do anything but gape at him. I do not know why he is wearing nice clothes.* It seems incongruous. He looks like he ought to be in desert khaki, or stripped to his waist on a raft somewhere in the Pacific, or dressed in seal-skins wrestling polar bears.

‘You feeling alright, old boy?’ he asks, gazing at me solicitously. ‘You’re looking poorly. ’Course I don’t know you — though I feel I do, from Viv’s letters, damn if that woman doesn’t have a way with words — but I’d venture to say you look as though you’ve been trampled by a yak! Isn’t she taking proper care of you? VIVIEN! YOUR HUSBAND LOOKS LIKE DEATH! WHERE THE DEVIL ARE YOU?’

He is nothing like what I had expected. ‘Mr Lancaster—’ I croak, but he cuts me off.

‘Come, man, don’t insult me! No one calls me Mister Lancaster but the press and rich mothers looking to buy me for their daughters.’ (I wince.) ‘It won’t do — my sister’s in love with you, by Christ! Call me Ashley, or just Lancaster if you really must — that’s what they called me at school, before I quit.’

He has such a bluff, good-natured manner than I do not know what to do. I am struck by an overwhelming and entirely absurd desire for him to like me. ‘We have to talk,’ I say.

‘We are talking!’ cries this garrulous giant. ‘And it’s about time, too! Read all her letters on the boat back, and Christ, it’s Lionel this and Lionel that — I feel as though we spent the entire voyage together! Where IS she? VIVIEN! But listen,’ he says, leaning in conspiratorially so that our foreheads are almost touching. ‘As long as we’ve a moment alone, I wanted to thank you. God knows it isn’t easy being an older brother — but I forget, you know all about that! I’m sure it’s the same for you. I’m a pacifist — too much time in Tibet, ha ha ha! — but by God if the wrong man looked at Viv I’d rip his heart out and eat it raw.’ I blanch. He doesn’t notice, and continues. ‘But the way she talks about you, I know you treat her right. And it’s a load off my mind, by Christ, to know she’s found a good man who loves her the way she deserves to be loved!’

I am reeling. I do not know what he is talking about. Does he not know that Vivien and I hate each other? To what letters is he referring? What has Tibet to do with anything? Where did he come from? Why is he here? These thoughts chase each other through my brain, followed closely by wonderment that the papers were right about him after all. ‘Mr Lancaster—’ I begin, but am again cut off.

‘She’s not a frivolous woman, mind — she thinks things through. Never was impulsive, not even as a girl. Never even looked at a man that way — though not for lack of men looking at her, God knows! I never imagined she’d find anyone worth her. But the way she talks about you, Savage! I’m not a sentimental man, but damn me, I was moved. She respects you, you know. It’s more than just love — love’s fine, but it fades — but she respects you! And I wanted to— Well, Savage, I wanted to thank you. It’s a relief to know she’s in good hands. Now where the Devil is she?’ (Oh God.) ‘VIVIEN!’

I must read these letters. ‘Listen,’ I say, but he does not.

Instead, he says, ‘VIIIIIIVIENNNNNN!’ and several books fall from their shelves.

‘LISTEN TO ME, DAMN YOU!’ I shout.

He is brought up short, and for the first time since he entered the room he stops moving. ‘I say, I’m sorry, old boy. What is it?’

‘She isn’t here.’

‘Well why didn’t you say so!’ he cries with a grin. ‘Popped out, eh? Well it’s been two years; another hour won’t hurt anything. Give us a chance to talk, what?’

‘Yes,’ I say, ‘quite. Well, you see—’

‘I envy you, Savage,’ says Lancaster, lying down on the sofa and stretching his long legs out before him with evident pleasure. ‘I wasn’t cut out for marriage; but damn me do I envy you. Do you know I haven’t even spoken to a woman in eighteen months? Not that I’m complaining, mind — in my profession a woman’s the kiss of death. Truth is, I don’t even look at women anymore. Think marriage would kill me. And you get used to bachelorhood. But all the same, in another life, God what I wouldn’t give for a soft pair of arms attached to a quick mind and an adventurous heart. Eh, but as I say, not for me! No, old boy, I don’t believe there’s a woman on this earth who could make me truly regret my freedom.’*