The Kindly Ones - Anthony Powell [72]
Duport’s first act on sitting down at the table was to pour out a stiffish whisky, add a splash of soda from the syphon also standing on the table, and gulp the drink down. Then he looked contemptuously round the room. Obviously my own presence had materially altered the background he expected of the dining-room at the Bellevue. He stared hard. Soup was set in front of him. I supposed he would turn to it. Instead, he continued to stare. I pretended to be engrossed with my fish. There was something of the old Albert in the sauce. Then Duport spoke. He had a hard, perfectly assured, absolutely uningratiating voice.
‘We’ve met before,’ he said.
‘Have we?’
‘Somewhere.’
‘Where could that have been?’
‘Certain of it. I can’t remember your name. Mine’s Duport – Bob.’
‘Nicholas Jenkins.’
‘Aren’t you a friend of my former brother-in-law, Peter Templer?’
‘A very old friend.’
‘And he drove us both into the ditch in some bloody fast second-hand car he had just bought. Years ago. A whole row of chaps and a couple of girls. The party included a fat swab called Brent.’
‘He did, indeed. That was where we met. Of course I remember you.’
‘I thought so. Do you ever see Peter these days?’
‘Hadn’t for ages. Then we met about a year ago – just after “Munich”, as a matter of fact.’
‘I’ve heard him talk about you. I used to be married to his sister, Jean, you know. I believe I’ve heard her speak of you, too.’
‘I met her staying with the Templers.’
‘When was that?’
‘Years ago – when I had just left school.’
‘Ever see her later?’
‘Yes, several times.’
‘Probably when she and I were living apart. That is when Jean seems to have made most of her friends.’
‘When I last saw Peter, he was talking about some new job of yours.’
I judged it best to change the subject of Jean – also remembering the talk about Duport between Sir Magnus Donners and Widmerpool. Up to then, I had thought of Duport only in an earlier incarnation, never considered the possibility of running into him again.
‘Was he, indeed? Where did you meet him?’
‘Stourwater.’
‘Did you, by God? What do you do?’
I tried to give some account, at once brief and intelligible, of the literary profession: writing; editing; reviewing; the miscellaneous odd jobs to which I was subject, never, for some reason, very easy to define to persons not themselves in that world. To my relief, Duport showed no interest whatever in such activities, apparently finding them neither eccentric nor important.
‘Shouldn’t think it brings in much dough,’ he said. ‘But how do you come to know Donners?’
‘We were taken over by some friends who live in the neighbourhood.’
‘You’re married?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you like being married?’
‘Support it all right.’
‘You’re lucky. I find it a great relief not to be married – though I was quite stuck on Jean when we were first wed. But what on earth are you doing in this dump?’
I explained about Uncle Giles, about Albert.
‘So that’s the answer,’ said Duport. ‘Of course I used to see your uncle cruising about here. Bad-tempered old fellow. Didn’t know he’d dropped off the hooks. They like to keep death quiet in places like this. Look here, when you were staying with Donners, was an absolute bugger called Widmerpool there too?’
‘Widmerpool wasn’t staying there. He just looked in. Wanted to say something about your business affairs, I think. I know Widmerpool of old.’
‘A hundred per cent bastard – word’s too good for him.’
‘I know some people think so.’
‘Don’t you?’
‘He and I rub along all right. But why are you living at the Bellevue?’
‘Keeping out of the immediate view of the more enterprising of my creditors. I only wish my stay here were going to be as brief as yours.’
‘How did you find the place?’
‘Odd chance, as a matter of fact. I once brought a girl down to the Royal for the week-end – one of those bitches you want to have and get out of your system and never set eyes on again. While we were there I made friends