William Boyd - Sweet Caress

I sat there surrounded by my Berlin photographs feeling I was in a kind of limbo. I should have been exhilarated — this was my first exhibition as an independent photographer and in London’s West End, no less — but I found my mind turning again and again to the enigmatic Cleveland Finzi of Global-Photo-Watch and his invitation. Was he being sincere or simply polite?

On the third day I was sitting at the desk in my squirrel coat — the weather had turned freezing — and the gallery had been empty for a good hour, when I heard the telephone ring in what had been the back storeroom. I ran for it, knowing somehow that it was Cleveland Finzi at last.

‘Oh. Hello, Greville,’ I said, unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

‘You’ve a very good review in the Scotsman. ’

‘Have I?’

He quoted. ‘Listen: “Miss Clay has a horror of ‘cliché’ and so has searched Berlin for examples of real lives. She has eschewed the commonplace and sees things entirely for herself with great clarity and honesty.” Isn’t that wonderful?’

‘I suppose I should be pleased,’ I said. ‘My first review.’

‘We might get a few more newspapers, now,’ he said. ‘I’ll see if I can circulate this.’

I put the phone down and it rang again immediately.

‘What is it, Greville?’

‘Miss Clay? This is Cleveland Finzi.’

‘Yes.’

‘Hello? Are you there?’

‘Yes, it’s me. Miss Clay.’

‘I tried your apartment but there was no reply. Luckily I thought I might find you at the gallery.’

‘Luckily, yes.’

‘I’d like to invite you for a cocktail. I’m staying at the Earlham, on the Strand. How does six o’clock suit you this evening?’

‘Yes, yes. It suits.’ I seemed to have lost the ability to speak sophisticated English.

‘I’ll see you in the Palm Court at six.’

I managed to persuade Bruno to stand in for me after lunch and went to a hairdresser’s in Charing Cross Road to have my hair washed and set. I decided that I didn’t have time to go back to Fulham and change but I could at least look entirely different from the anonymous creature Finzi had encountered at the vernissage. Out of my swathed cap, with my hair down and shiny and some slightly extravagant make-up, plus my squirrel coat. . If I kept my coat on I might pass for reasonably glamorous, I thought.

I was walking down Charing Cross Road towards Trafalgar Square, feeling good, a silk scarf protecting my new hair-do, when I passed the entrance to the Bardmont Concert Hall. I don’t know why I stopped, perhaps because I was early for my six o’clock appointment, but I did and idly scanned the poster for that evening’s concert. I read: ‘The New London Symphony Orchestra. Soloist Miss Dido Clay.’

Dido Clay?

I looked again at the programme: Chopin, Debussy and a symphonic tone poem, ‘Aeneas in Carthage’, by Peregrine Moxon. Dido Clay had to be my sister, Peggy.

The new name worked. I’m here to meet my sister Miss Dido Clay, I said, and I was led by a uniformed porter through the passageways to the rehearsal rooms at the rear, hearing, as I approached, piano music in an atonal modern style that I didn’t recognise.

The door was held open for me and there was Peggy at the piano, head down, pounding out some crescendo, eyes closed, a cigarette dangling from her lips. Bash! A final dissonant chord. She slowly lifted her hands from the keys, leaning back, cigarette vertical.

‘Peggy?’

She turned abruptly, saw me, gave a little squeal of pleasure, removed her cigarette from her lips and raced over to me. She kissed me.

‘Never, ever, call me Peggy again,’ she whispered sharply.

‘Sorry. Dido.’

‘I’m Dido, now. Forever.’

‘Dido, Dido, Dido.’

Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight bun making her look stern, worldly. I felt that strange sensation again that she was older than me, though she was just seventeen, I realised. Then she hugged me tightly again, my little sister.

‘Darling Amory! You look ravishing. What’re you doing? Off to some party?’

‘I’m going to meet a man. An American.’

‘Too exciting! Is he rich?’

‘Possibly. But I’m late, I must dash. I saw your name on the poster outside and had to check it was you.’ I smiled. ‘Dido, dearest.’

‘I’ll tell you everything. It was Peregrine’s idea. I’ll telephone you — I’ve a concert and two recitals this week.’ She smiled mischievously and I saw the old Peggy for a second or two. ‘I can’t wait to hear all about your American lover.’

We kissed goodbye and I walked back out to the street feeling the beginnings of a headache. I pushed all thoughts of Peggy/Dido to one side and turned up the Strand, heading for the Earlham Hotel. At reception I told the clerk I was meeting Mr Finzi in the Palm Court and was led along a corridor towards the sound of a harp and piano and on into the wide over-furnished room, filled with tight groupings of chairs and sofas, its famous huge chandelier glowing brightly. My throat was a little dry and I suspected my pulse was beating faster than normal but I told myself, resolutely, to anticipate nothing.

Finzi saw me enter and stood and waved. He was wearing a dark charcoal suit, very well cut, and his Americanness was advertised only by a strange silver device that shaped his collar round the knot of his tie. And he also wore a tiepin.

‘I assume you’re not interested in a cup of tea,’ he said.

‘I’ll have a brandy and soda, thank you.’

He ordered our drinks from a waiter — he had a Scotch and water — and we began to talk at once about the exhibition. He was full of praise and as he talked I rather marvelled at the astonishing calm self-assurance he exhibited. In fact he was so self-assured I began to wonder if it was an act. I’ve known certain people where the most adamantine confidence is just a mask for terrified insecurity but I quickly realised there was nothing bogus about Cleveland Finzi. I thought that perhaps it was his American accent that contributed to the overall savoir faire , so—

‘You’re not listening to me, Miss Clay,’ he said, reasonably.

‘Yes, I am.’

‘I just asked you a question.’

‘And I answered it.’

‘No, you didn’t.’

I sipped at my brandy, playing for time.

‘I’m so sorry if I seem distracted but I’ve just had a perplexing meeting with my sister. She’s changed her name.’

‘I can see how that might throw you.’

‘She’s always been Peggy but now she insists on being called Dido.’

He thought about this. ‘Dido. . I prefer it to Peggy. Nice name, Dido.’

‘Talking of names,’ I said, ‘is your family Italian?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Finzi.’

‘Oh. Finzi is a Jewish name,’ he said.

‘Is it?’

‘Sephardi Jewish name. I think we were from Italy, originally. Then originally from Spain, of course.’

‘Of course, yes. . How interesting.’

He carried on asking me precise questions about my photographs — how had I managed to gain access to these places in Berlin? Had I been obliged to pay money to take the photographs? Were they posed or candid? — and so on. He was very impressed with my secret handbag-camera when I explained it to him and when he asked me about printing I was glad to be able to throw in a few authoritative remarks about dodging and burning.

We ordered a second round of drinks and smoked a cigarette. I think I managed to stay relatively composed as we talked and tried not to stare at him too intently. However, had Cleveland Finzi invited me up to his room to dance naked round his bed I would have said yes in a second.