Forrest Leo - The Gentleman

A hit, a palpable hit. Lizzie and Lancaster laugh. I apologise to him.

‘How would we get to the centre of the earth?’ I ask.

‘There was a German philologist, sir,’ says Simmons, ‘who some years ago claimed to have journeyed there. A Frenchman wrote a book about it.’

‘Just so, by Christ!’ says Lancaster. ‘I recall that expedition. Bungled, the whole thing, but never mind — it reminds me of something. You are all no doubt familiar with the artistic trope of Hellmouth?’

‘No,’ I say, and brace myself for:

‘NO I AM NOT FAMILIAR WITH IT, ASHLEY LANCASTER. I AM FAMILIAR WITH NO ARTISTIC TROPE.’

‘Tompkins,’ I say, ‘you don’t have any books on art history, do you? It’s rather an emergency.’

‘Certainly,’ he says. He hauls himself from the depths of his armchair and disappears into the stacks.

I stare into the fire and think of Viv. (I do not believe I have ever before referred to my wife as ‘Viv.’ It must have rubbed off from Lancaster. I think I like it. It puts me in mind of two separate persons — the woman I mistreated for six months, who is Vivien and whom I loathed, and the woman I am attempting to save from damnation, who is Viv and whom I love.) I remember her hair — the way it fell in waves when she wore it down, and floated upon the air when it was up. I remember her laugh. How funny that I should recall it at all; I think of her as generally an unhappy woman. Which was, it seems, my fault. Or partially mine. I still rebel against the notion that I hold sole responsibility.

There are several crashes from the stacks, a puff of dust, and Tompkins emerges victorious, holding two large tomes. He gives them to Lizzie, who says, ‘Thank you, Tompkins — at least there is one person here who is a gentleman,’ and kisses his cheek.

‘What were you saying about Hellmouth, boy?’ Tompkins says to Lancaster, who seems to be unsuccessfully composing a witty response to Lizzie’s barb.

‘Oh,’ says Lancaster. ‘Um. Excuse me. I was— Sorry.’ He regains his composure, glances at me and Lizzie, smiles to himself, and says a little patronisingly, ‘Hellmouth was an image popular in the Middle Ages, though in conception probably dating from much earlier, which showed the entrance to Hell as the gaping maw of a dragon belching fire. I never thought much about it before, but it’s so prevalent one can’t help but wonder if there isn’t something to it.’

‘Alright,’ I say, mystified. ‘That’s lovely, but how does it—’

‘Oh!’ exclaims Lizzie. ‘Yes, I see! Of course!’

Simmons and Tompkins are both nodding as though they understand.

‘What?’ I demand. I still have no idea what he means.

Lizzie says, ‘A volcano, silly. It could be a volcano.’

‘In fact,’ muses Lancaster, ‘I believe that’s it, by Christ! I recall now that there’s an African tribe I spent some time with who worshipped a volcano — they said it was a portal to another realm, one of spirits and such. I’d forgotten about it until just now! Perhaps you’re familiar with it, Mr Tompkins. Where exactly are you from, anyway?’

Tompkins becomes abruptly chilly. ‘I am from England, Mr Lancaster,’ says he.

‘Yes, yes, ’course you are,’ says Lancaster ingenuously. ‘But where are you from originally ?’

‘I was born in England, sir, as was my father before me.’

‘I say, old boy,’ exclaims Lancaster, suddenly picking up on Tompkins’s tone, ‘I didn’t mean to offend you! Farthest thing from my mind, by Christ! I couldn’t care less if you’re black, white, green, or bloody purple!’

‘Oh,’ says Lizzie, ‘these men, these men!’

Tompkins suddenly guffaws, whether at Lizzie or at the look of chagrin on Lancaster’s face it’s impossible to say. ‘Never mind, boy,’ says he. ‘I’ve faced worse than that. In the old days Simmons used to fight for my honour.’

This is such a remarkable piece of news that for a moment I forget all about my wife. ‘Simmons fought for you?’

‘Good man, Simmons,’ says Tompkins.

‘Hyperbolic man, Tompkins,’ retorts Simmons.

‘Don’t be prosaic, Simmons!’ I cry. ‘Did you or did you not fight for Tompkins?’

‘There were some fellows, sir, in our youth, who said some things which a friend could not let pass.’

I command him to tell us more, but my enigmatical butler only shakes his head coyly.

‘If you don’t mind my asking, Mr Tompkins,’ says Lancaster, whose bluff demeanour is in no way altered by his momentary embarrassment, ‘where is it that your people are from? I only ask in case I’ve been there.’

‘My grandfather, before he was stolen and sold, was born in a place called Makombologo,’ says Tompkins, shooting Simmons a wink which Lancaster does not notice.

The explorer looks much more embarrassed than previously, and at length admits in a low voice, ‘I have not heard of it.’

We all do our best not to laugh at his ignorance of this fictitious place, and he changes the subject awkwardly. ‘What do you know about Snaefellsjökull, Mr Tompkins?’

‘Good God,’ I say. ‘What on earth is that? Another village in Africa?’

‘It’s a volcano in Iceland,’ says Tompkins, coming back to the matter at hand. ‘Our German friend claims to have used it as a portal to the centre of the earth, and the old pagans thought of it as an entry to the land of the dead. I’d quite forgotten that. Yes, boy, I think it just might do the trick.’

Lancaster’s ego is soothed and he is grinning. It’s the same grin I saw when he was standing over me earlier — feral, dangerous, and elated. ‘Savage,’ he says, ‘we’re going to Iceland.’*

‘We can’t go to Iceland,’ I protest. ‘It will take ages to get to Iceland. By the time we make it to Iceland who knows what could have happened to Vivien?’

‘Hmm,’ says Tompkins. ‘Quite.’

‘Dash it all,’ says Lancaster, ‘I suppose you’re right. Hadn’t thought of us being under the gun, as it were, but maybe we are at that. Is there a time limit on these things, Mr Tompkins?’

‘There could be,’ says the bookseller, ‘or there could not be. It’s difficult to say.’

‘What are the factors?’ I ask.

‘Well,’ says Tompkins, ‘occasionally when mortals are kept in the underworld for extended periods they lose touch with mortal feelings. Sometimes they die outright; sometimes they just become sort of shades, living a half-life among the dead. But of course that doesn’t happen always. I have read stories of men and women who have lived for decades in the underworld and emerged as sunny as a June morning. It all depends.’

‘What does it depend on ?’ I press.

Tompkins shrugs.

‘Is there any way to find out?’ asks Lizzie.

‘None reliable,’ says Tompkins.

‘So what you’re saying,’ says Lancaster, ‘is that it’s possible that if we don’t get to Vivien in time she could die, but we don’t know how long that could take, or even if we actually have to worry about it?’

‘Just so. Vexing, isn’t it?’

We all agree that it is, rather.

‘It sounds as though we must assume the worst,’ says Lizzie.

‘I always assume the worst,’ I say.

‘What we need,’ says Lancaster, ‘is a way to get to Iceland very quickly.’

Which is when I have a wondrous idea.