The Map of Time and The Turn of the Screw. Felix J. Palma

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      However, that afternoon, Andrew did not have time to look at any book. He did not even manage to cross the room to the bookshelves because the loveliest girl he had ever seen stopped him in his tracks. He stood staring at her, bemused, as time seemed to congeal, to stand still. Finally he managed to approach the portrait slowly to take a closer look. The woman was wearing a black velvet toque and a flowery scarf knotted at the neck. Andrew had to admit she was by no means conventionally beautiful: her nose was disproportionately large for her face, her eyes too close together and her reddish hair looked damaged, yet at the same time she possessed a charm as unmistakable as it was elusive. He was unsure exactly what about her captivated him. Perhaps it was the contrast between her fragile appearance and the strength that radiated from her gaze; a gaze he had never seen in any of his conquests. It was wild, determined, and retained a glimmer of youthful innocence, as if every day the woman was forced to confront the ugliness of life, and yet, curled up in her bed at night, still believed it a regrettable figment of her imagination, a bad dream that would dissolve and give way to a more pleasant reality. It was the gaze of a person who yearns for something and refuses to believe it will never be hers, because hope is all she has left.

      ‘A charming creature, isn’t she?’ Charles’s voice came from behind him.

      Andrew jumped. He had been so absorbed in the portrait he had not heard his cousin come in. He nodded as Charles walked over to the drinks cabinet. He himself could not have found a better way to describe the emotions the portrait had stirred in him, the desire to protect her mixed with the admiration he could only compare – rather reluctantly, owing to the inappropriateness of the metaphor – to that which he felt for cats.

      ‘It was my birthday present to my father,’ Charles explained, pouring brandy. ‘It’s only been hanging there a few days.’

      ‘Who is she?’ asked Andrew. ‘I don’t remember seeing her at any of Lady Holland or Lord B rough ton’s parties.’

      ‘At those parties?’ Charles laughed. ‘I’m beginning to think the artist is gifted. He’s taken you in as well.’

      ‘What do you mean?’ asked Andrew, accepting the glass his cousin was holding out to him.

      ‘Surely you don’t think I gave it to my father because of its artistic merit? Does it look like a painting worthy of my consideration, cousin?’ Charles grabbed his arm, forcing him to move a few steps closer to the portrait. ‘Take a good look. Notice the brushwork: utterly devoid of talent. The painter is no more than an amusing disciple of Degas. Where the Parisian is gentle, he is starkly sombre.’

      Andrew did not understand enough about painting to discuss it with his cousin, and all he really wanted to know was the sitter’s identity, so he nodded gravely, giving his cousin to understand he agreed with his view that the artist would do better to devote himself to repairing bicycles. Charles smiled, amused by his cousin’s refusal to converse about painting – it would have given Charles a chance to air his knowledge – and declared: ‘I had another reason for giving it to him, dear cousin.’

      He drained his glass slowly, and gazed at the picture, shaking his head with satisfaction.

      ‘And what reason was that, Charles?’ Andrew asked, becoming impatient.

      ‘The private enjoyment I get from knowing that my father, who looks down on the lower classes, has the portrait of a common prostitute hanging in his library.’

      His words made Andrew reel. ‘A p-p-prostitute?’ he stammered.

      ‘Yes, cousin,’ replied Charles, beaming with content. ‘But not a high-class whore from the brothels in Russell Square, or even one of the tarts who ply their trade in the park on Vincent Street, but a dirty, foul-smelling draggletail from Whitechapel upon whose ravaged loins the wretched of the earth alleviate their misery for a few meagre pennies.’

      Andrew took a swig of brandy. There was no denying that his cousin’s revelation had shocked him, as it would anybody who saw the portrait, but he also felt strangely disappointed. He stared at the painting again, trying to discover the cause of his unease. So, this lovely creature was a vulgar tart. Now he understood the mixture of passion and resentment that the artist had so skilfully captured in her eyes. But Andrew had to admit his disappointment related to a far more selfish logic: the woman did not belong to his social class, which meant he could never meet her.

      ‘I bought it thanks to Bruce Driscoll,’ Charles explained, pouring more brandy for them both. ‘Do you remember him?’

      Andrew nodded unenthusiastically. Bruce was a friend of his cousin whom boredom and money had made an art collector; a conceited, idle young man who had no compunction in showing off his knowledge of painting at every opportunity.

      ‘You know how he likes to search for treasure in the most unlikely places,’ his cousin said, handing him his glass. ‘Well, the last time I saw him, he told me about a painter he’d dug up during one of his visits to the flea markets. A man called Walter Sickert, a founding member of the New English Art Club. His studio was in Cleveland Street, and he painted East End prostitutes as though they were society ladies. I dropped in there and couldn’t resist his latest canvas.’

      ‘Did he tell you anything about her?’ Andrew asked, trying to appear nonchalant.

      ‘About the whore? Only her name. I think she’s called Marie Jeanette.’

      ‘Marie Jeanette,’ Andrew murmured. The name suited her, like her little hat. ‘A Whitechapel whore …’ he whispered, still unable to get over his surprise.

      ‘Yes, a Whitechapel whore. And my father has given her pride of place in his library!’ Charles spread his arms theatrically in a mock-triumphant gesture. ‘Isn’t it absolutely priceless?’

      With this, Charles flung his arm around his cousin’s shoulders and guided him to the sitting room. Andrew tried to hide his agitation, but could not help thinking about the girl in the portrait as they planned their assault on the charming Keller sisters.

      That night, in his bedroom, Andrew lay awake. Where was the woman in the painting now? What was she doing? By the fourth or fifth question he had begun calling her by her name, as though he really knew her and they enjoyed a non-existent intimacy. He realised he was seriously disturbed when he began to feel an absurd jealousy towards the men who could have her for a few pennies when to him, despite his wealth, she was unattainable. And yet was she really beyond his reach? Surely, given his position, he could have her, physically at least, more easily than he could any other woman, and for the rest of his life. The problem was finding her.

      Andrew had never been to Whitechapel, but he had heard enough about it to know it was dangerous, especially for someone of his class. It was not advisable to go there alone, but he could not count on Charles accompanying him. His cousin would not understand him preferring a tart’s grubby charms to what the delightful Keller sisters kept hidden beneath their petticoats, or the perfumed honey-pots of the Chelsea madams with whom well-to-do West End gentlemen sated their appetites. Perhaps he would understand, and even agree to go with him for the fun of it, if Andrew explained it as a passing fancy, but what he felt was too powerful to be reduced to a mere whim.

      Or was it? He would not know what he wanted from her until he had her in his arms. Would she really be so difficult to find? Three sleepless nights were enough for him to come up with a plan.

      And so it was that while the Crystal Palace (which had been moved to Sydenham after displaying the Empire’s industrial prowess) offered organ recitals, children’s ballets, ventriloquists’ acts СКАЧАТЬ