4. Le Fleurs du Mal
From 'Passages' by Jean de Lier
Hilary had had what might be called a mixed childhood, though the mixture was not really to be recommended. Her father had died when she was quite young and, with her sister, she was educated in part by a Scottish grandfather of great age and some public distinction, who was happy to let them run free. He lived in a huge castle with hot and cold running servants in the grand manner. For the rest of time the girls were with a resentful, mean, unhappy and vindictive mother who, while not quite poverty stricken was certainly not inclined to spoil them. As soon as possible they were packed off to boarding school.
Hillary went on to Cambridge where she did well, met and married and went into business where in due course she was taken over and became the ‘right hand man’ (woman) of Sir Andrew Crespi, entrepreneur and general monster, sailing as close to the wind, to the law, as he dared. He was never quite broke, never quite secure, never convicted of anything except being blackmailed by serial ex-wives. Hilary, was both axman, trouble shooter and the acceptable face of capitalism for him and in due course he paid her well for it. In the process she had three children before her husband died, quite young and just before she divorced him for multiple infidelities. The circumstances are not relevant to this tale but include no suspicions of foul play, and in due course he was canonised by the family that had hardly known him. His widow was content with the fiction, but seriously had to make a living now, which meant that in a way, without any sexual connotations, Sir Andrew became the man of the house, the man in her life if not in the bed.
He was a vulgar bully, and in this respect some kind of echo of her own mother, who used only slightly more gentle language to blackmail, terrorise and disappoint her daughters. Hilary had a good fine house in a well regarded bourgeois neighbourhood, sent the children to good schools and universities, took the occasional lover (including on a single occasion her boss) but allowed no one to get remotely close to her, her iron control of her emotions being the one defence she preserved from childhood. Probably her mind associated maleness with brutality and/or betrayal, and she was not prepared to fall for it again.
She drank water for breakfast, went to cocktail parties to network, and was as near to anorexic as foie gras and champagne will allow. Nothing else fatty crossed her lips and very little of anything touched her lips anyway. Under the circumstances it is not quite surprising that her sister remained her best and only close friend.
She did allow herself to play bridge once in a while, which is a way of keeping the mind occupied in neutral territory, not quite lonely but without having to face any thoughts about ‘Life’ and what it might be doing. Life was clearly not doing much for her. She insisted upon that exaggerated politeness in everything that is the mark of abuse. As rude as was her boss and her mother, so polite was Hilary, so demanding of praise and re-assurance and intolerant of the smallest hint of criticism.
It was in this mood that one day she quite idly allowed herself the pleasure of a night in bed with an insistent man, found she liked him, fled, was followed and slowly found herself rather fond of him. This was clearly surplus to requirements, a serious breach of the security that she had carefully built up. He, with no qualms and an easy conscience and unaware of the background with which he was totally unfamiliar, allowed himself to fall head over heels in love with her, unashamedly and openly, totally and delightedly, which made it worse. He just fell in love and, alas for him, in a letter that accompanied a birthday card with a kiss on it, he compounded his error by writing of his love:
You have had my kiss before; you have had others, with more reality than this. You have had this one on paper and others elsewhere. And you will have more I hope and believe, kisses aplenty, plenteous and bountiful, placed wheresoever you wish. But because I cannot guess where you might put this card, or wish to put this card, in sight of whom, I have chosen to keep the dedication on it to a bare minimum, consequent upon your shy reluctance to express yourself, or to allow me to express myself for you, in even the relative privacy of wherever it might be displayed.
Therefore know that, with infinite discretion I do dedicate your Birthday to yourself, with every love and kindness and joy, thanking your parents for bearing you, your niece for introducing us and your lovely self for continuing to be my love, now for the first four months of my rebirth, my renaissance. The fountain of my heart, the love of my never changing and steadfast affections, look at me and allow me to cherish you, now and for many more birthdays.
You have had before, as I say, this paper kiss, and you have had other, maybe more effusive paper borne expressions of my love. You shall have more yet, but all are as nothing, nothing but shadows to that love which I really bear for you and which, person to person, I shall demonstrate and hold up to you, instil and breathe into your soul, kindle and enlighten that heart which is Hilary’s, that heart which I believe to be thawing slowly from a lifetime of self-control. Love me, love my love, and learn to love yourself for love of me. By that means you will hold my love forever, locked into yours; and I shall keep your love.
Naturally she chose to see this as mere literary vapouring (which had not occurred to him) and she asked him what might happen when he changed his mind. The thought slowly crossed his mind that it was she who might be insincere, just using him for flattery, and that she would simply leave when she got bored. In this he was wrong in turn, though the result was the same. Panic set in and some while later he wrote again:
Are you telling me, warning me of subtexts, to read more deeply, to look more carefully at your sometimes absent face when I love you? Have I missed something? Have I missed everything? Am I supposed to be sensitive to untold decades of roaring miseries, of losses and joys I cannot comprehend or recapture. I know I must learn to play your notes. I shall play such tunes to elevate your lifetime. But if the people in the book you gave me ring true to you, how can I ever aspire to such complexities of feeling and sorrow and loss. I go more for “Easy mirth and laughter….” Yes, I detect long sorrow which I flatter myself I might slowly lift. I do detect, and after all you have partly told me, of your many losses. I also ‘lost’ relationships, loves, partly (but only partly) through my own neglect. I will not neglect you – it shall not happen again.
But it was too late. The words seemed to attack her, skated across her mind and rattled the iron bars of her cage. She loved him, or thought she loved him, or thought she might learn to love him. She was attracted to him physically and flattered by his attention. And that also terrified her. How dare he make her risk losing control, control she had taken twenty, thirty years or more, maybe her whole life time, to build up. No, it is not allowed and it will not be tolerated. She had finally agreed to go away for a whole weekend with him to a hotel; they made love more and more passionately, they promised and loved, ate and drank. He thanked her the next day in an effusive letter, a letter which came out of his dream world, inhabited by himself and by her:
I am walking with you between wood and water, on a summer evening, drowsy with wine and food, fellowship and sex; and on a green edged sward in the darkening eve we kiss again, and slowly, idly, strip, close together, face to face, almost for warmth in the cooling air. We make a brief but elongated, tired love, languid with the caresses we have already given; we swim naked in the lake to wash ourselves of those fluids, sweats and tears, salivas and semen and your sweet smelling liquidity, your gentle internal softnesses, secretions and delicious oiliness. Thus washed and refreshed by the clear waters of a quiet lake, a duck or moorhen for company, my rational mind imagines we have to dry ourselves, having brought no towel, with our hands, each the other, or maybe we use the back of a comb like ancient Greek athletes rubbing down the olive oil. And thus we arouse each other again, in the shadows, the remnants of a desire too sated to function further. We dress and, misty with love, we walk slowly back to the company of friends for another glass of dark red wine, a snack, a smoke, coffee and later, after discussing the negligible programme of the morrow, we retire to a bed, large, soft, warm, enclosing, too tired each to do much more than register lightly each other’s proximity. Slept, maybe in the morning, hurriedly, mentally and physically prepared, we make another brief but wildly orgasmic love, sleep an instant more before, before rising to greet the dawn, the morn, another day together.
But with every passionate kiss she became more certain that this must end, she must extricate herself. The problem was not his love but hers. Her love, not her lack of love. With every night and every orgasm she became more terrified. He only loved her, whereas she was losing control. It was her own love that threatened her.
He gave her presents and did kindnesses for her children, OUT, almost become part of the family. OUT, OUT, until finally, OUT, with a huge effort of will she managed to shake herself free. She shed him, outrageously, insultingly, suddenly, publicly, so that there could be no doubt, no return. He could only regard it as, not a slap in the face, but a stab deep deep to the heart.
He wrote one more letter, sad, bitter and defiant. It ended: I shall go back out into the world, face the cold winds and stormy weather and you will retreat back behind the high walls which I had very partially breached, repair the hole, and redouble the defences. From the turret you can wave to me as I go by. Like the Lady of Shallot.
He saw her once more to deliver some gifts that had been promised.
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