The Hothouse by the East River by Muriel Spark Read Free Book Online Page B

French in front of the servants.’
    ‘Do you
think he doesn’t know French?’ Paul says.
    ‘Oh, I
don’t know about that,’ says Elsa. ‘I was only thinking of some way of putting
him in his place. What does it matter if he understands what we say, since we
never say anything that matters?’
    Garven
puts his head round the door of the drawing-room and looks at them both in a
worried sort of way. ‘1 had a dental appointment,’ he says. ‘Did you want
anything?’
    ‘Ice,’
Paul says.
    Elsa
says, ‘Would you feel very offended, Garven, if my husband and I conversed in
French when you are present in the room?’
    ‘Why?’
says Garven.
    ‘In
many societies,’ Elsa says, ‘It’s still usual to speak French in front of
servants and young children.’
    ‘Elsa!’
says Paul.
    ‘Why
French?’ says Garven.
    ‘Elsa,’
says Paul. ‘You’re going too far.’
    ‘I’m
not up in French,’ says Garven.
    ‘Mr
Hazlett wants you to quit, Garven. If we speak French will you quit?’
    ‘No,’
says Garven.
    ‘You
see?’ Elsa says, swaying ostentatiously from the window to the sofa, her shadow
waving with her. ‘You see? He’s got future plans for his thesis and his career.’
    ‘When
I’m through with this job I’ll let you know,’ says Garven, disappearing, so
that only his footsteps can be heard receding along the hall towards the
kitchen. Presently comes the clink of ice.
    ‘Poor
fellow!’ says Paul.
    The
telephone rings.
    ‘That’s
Pierre,’ says his mother. ‘I know his ring. Answer it.’
    ‘Hallo,’
says Paul into the receiver.
    ‘Is
everything all right?’ says Pierre’s voice.
    ‘What
do you mean, “Is everything all right ?“ ‘says Paul, looking at Elsa while he
repeats his son’s question, as it may be for her to hear.
    ‘Is it
a good day or a bad day?’
    ‘What
do you mean, “Is it a good day or a bad day?”‘
    ‘Tell
him it’s a good day,’ says Elsa. ‘He means me. Tell him it’s one of my good
days. Come along, tell him.’
    But
Paul’s attention is meanwhile eared to the voice at the other end and his free hand
stretches forth with a helpless flutter to hush Elsa’s talk, like the hand of
that King Canute who forbade the sea to advance in order merely to illustrate
the futility of the attempt.
    ‘I
can’t hear what you say,’ says Paul into the mouthpiece. ‘Your mother’s
talking. I can’t stand this house any more, this Garven. Are you at home now?
I’ll be right over.’
     
    ‘Back
in 1944 when people were normal and there was a world war on,’ says Paul to his
son, ‘it was a serious thing to be a spy. Very serious indeed.’
    ‘Was
it?’ says Pierre. ‘Do you hear that, Peregrine?’ he says, addressing his
friend who sits shapelessly on the sofa blinking his pinkish eyes, and drinking
whisky and soda from a tall fluted glass. ‘Father says,’ says Pierre, ‘that it
was a serious thing to be a spy back in the old days.’
    Paul
says to his son’s guest, ‘I was instrumental in sending a spy to prison. He was
a German, a very dangerous, wild personality. Of course, he was a double agent.
Then he got wounded while trying to escape from his prison. He was shot. A few
months later we heard that he died of the wounds. But that was a ruse. He
didn’t die at all. Somebody else must have been substituted for him. I know,
because I’ve seen him in New York.’
    Peregrine
shifts his eyes to tall young Pierre who is tipping tonic water into his gin
with a disdainful backward motion of the wrist and haughty lowered lids,
gestures that do not, however, signify anything special. ‘Is that the guy you
just went to check up on in the German prison?’ Peregrine says to his friend.
    ‘It
is,’ says Pierre.
    Paul
looks at the two young men and his thoughts turn panicky: ‘This has all
happened a long time ago,’ he thinks. ‘What is now? Now is never, never. Only
then exists. Where shall I turn next? New York is changing. Help me! Help me!’
He