Dr. Phibes in The Beginning Page 2

  The trench with its rotten duckboard and greasy puddles. The wire. The tufting fog. The guy on the parapet. He’d be staying behind this Armistice Day and all the days after that.

  Phibes came through the war unscathed save for a slight wound at Arras. After a brief holiday, he resumed his duties at the Foreign office and was soon negotiating trade agreements with his usual muted expertise.

  Two years had gone by when he attended his first regimental gathering. The Iniskillings weren’t an overly proud bunch but they had won more battles than they’d lost. And that gave them the very durable quality of self-respect, a great asset during peace as well as in war.

  Phibes didn’t see any of his comrades at the affair. Leonard R. had been badly wounded and was still recuperating. Peter S. had re-enlisted and was off somewhere in the colonies. The others were all dead or missing and presumed dead. Phibes lingered around the fire a bit to finish his ale. Most of the men had their own pewter mugs and liked to bang them about when they were toasting, which was often. Phibes wasn’t much for paraphernalia. A traveler by trade, he traveled light.

  Spartan best describes his London apartment. Parlor, sleeping room with a shower off, and a small kitchen nook where he could fix breakfast on workday mornings. Veal and eggs and a biscuit were his favorite fare.

  Unlike most Englishmen, Phibes never caught the tea habit. He avoided rituals of any kind and so drank coffee when he wanted it - not every day and not only in the mornings. The shop next door served a pitch-black Sumatra. The place had been there since the 17th century. Its floor planks were hollowed by hundreds of thousands of footsteps. And stamped into every table was a small metallic warning that “By His Majesty's decree, it is against the law for any gentleman to consume coffee beverages in this Establishment. Violators will be arrested and prosecuted.”

  Although Spartan by habit, Phibes was by no means destitute. Both of his parents were long gone but an uncle whom he’d never seen maintained an account for him at Barclay's Bank. Phibes never enquired about the funds on deposit but his rent was always paid one year in advance and he had credit at Fortnum & Mason, which took care of all his needs.

  The Service did well by him so that by the end of his fifth year since returning from the war, he was appointed Charge d’ Affaires, with an annual salary of 9000 pounds. A trim 6’1” even in his middle years, Anton Phibes was compact for his height and very clean in his habits. He preferred showers over the tub and shaved himself every morning with dime store disposable blades. He put on fresh underwear daily and had a preference for cotton sox, the only practical fabric for someone who walked as much as he did. He never used cologne but kept a bottle of bay rum in the medicine chest when the occasion called for it.

  Three suits hung in Phibes’ closet. One of them, a bottle-green worsted favored by the English novelists of the preceding century (and Balzac as well), the Phibes’ bottle green wasn’t slick and shiny like the novel writers liked to describe. Thanks to his frugal nature, Phibes’ wardrobe was well-maintained. In his only concession to luxury, both of his sport coats were made on the Isle of Man.

  Frederic Overton served with Phibes during the war. A tailor's apprentice, Freddy soon made journeyman after he was discharged. He maintained a lively correspondence with Phibes ever since, introducing him to the staunch wonders of the Harris Tweed. Phibes was drawn to the bright red and blue single threads that enlivened the swatches that Freddy enclosed with his letters. He ordered a coat by mail and was much surprised to find that it was a perfect fit when it arrived. Not too heavy to be clumsy but thick enough so he could go out of a night in the thickest fogs - no overcoat needed!

  The thin red or blue threading against the brown background attracted more than his share of attention. A rainbow-colored handkerchief in his breast pocket completed his business attire. In the phalanx of Bond Street grays and blacks, Phibes was the only stand-out.

  He enjoyed his singularity, hated arguing, and was always well-grounded in the core facts of any issue. Water was his main expertise. Where to get it. How to store it. And how to keep it clean! Even in the 1920's Phibes knew that the populations of the Equatorial Zone faced prolonged water shortages, severe enough to trigger armed conflict. Conservation was the best defense against this catastrophe and Phibes was one of its most eloquent advocates, a respected voice even in water-abundant Western Europe.

  Like all of his countrymen, Phibes waited for the promise fulfilled: that they’d fought the war to end all wars. It wasn’t and it didn’t. And by 1927 Phibes resigned from the Foreign Service in disgust. In the beginning the soldiers, sailors and marines (and the women amongst them) knew what they were fighting for. Those left at the end did not - nor did they know what their comrades had died for.

  Phibes headed back to the Continent. He had a standing invitation from Ataturk to visit him in the new Turkish capital at Ankara “where we have a very good swimming pool”. A week or two in Paris would get the trip off to a good start.

  The city had changed little since the war and why should it have? Unlike the Somme and the Normandy Coast, Paris had never fallen to the invaders. Proud, pragmatic, purposive, Parisians rushed about with great intent, their mobility increased by the Paris Metro and the swarms of automobiles that were clogging the streets. Along the grand boulevards, where style had the upper hand, speedy two-seaters darted in and out amongst the staid sedans.

  Lording over everyone were the open touring cars. Liveried chauffeurs navigated these monsters through the clamor, swerving often to avoid the horse-droppings as if a splash would pollute the grillwork. And there were plenty of horses to churn up the dust along the roadway. Dusters were a necessity, the ladies’ brightly colored scarves and bonnets were everywhere in evidence, wrapped in gauze to protect the fine fabric.

  Phibes stayed at the Hotel Majestic, where he had been quartered eight years earlier during the Peace Conference. He walked a lot in this very walkable city. One weekday afternoon he found himself inside the Notre Dame des Victoires. As he wandered about the great hall, the pews as far as he could see were empty. Here and there a spare candle flickered high on the stone wall. How did it get there and who lit it?

  The benches along the wall were empty too.

  Far up ahead he could see the altar. Steeped in darkness, it was quite desolate of the priests whose prayers and chants lent a tinge of life to this stone-bound place.

  Dusk was closing about the cathedral when a sudden gust of wind sent the candles flickering. And in that stroboscopic glare, Phibes saw the organ exactly where he might have expected it - in an alcove to the right of the dais where stood the pulpit. The organ was quite small for a church of this size, which is why he missed it in the first place.

  He strode briskly to the alcove and, without giving it a second thought, pulled out the necessary stops on the keyboard and started to play. Soon, the mighty chords were slicing through the penumbral darkness that now hung over the pews.

  5...10...20 minutes, Bach's Great Fugue lashed at this sacred place pulling it back to life from the gloom. Finishing, Phibes clasped his hands and leaned back on the bench.

  That's when he heard the applause, a polite smattering far up the nave. There, a few janitors had come in to investigate. With them were some priests who’d come over from the rectory next door.

  Why was the organ playing now? Had a mass been scheduled unbeknownst to them?

  One of the priests came forward to see about the impromptu. He was younger than the others and moved with a light decisive step. After thanking the organist, he said that he’d listened to Bach's music many times but never had he heard it quite like this.

  Power and perspective, he enthused to his visitor, power, and perspective. Do you play professionally?

  No.

  Then you should.

  You're being kind.

  Not at all. Bach isn’t for amateurs. Either you get him, or you stay away. “Getting Bach” is a gift to be shared.

  If one has the
time.

  Surely you can find a day or two each month. You're English, of course.

  I travel.

  Of course. Foreign Service, perhaps?

  Phibes demurred. The priest scribbled something on a scrap of paper and handed it to him.

  Call this number when you can. M. Robillard is well-connected hereabouts in all things musical.

  The priest was gone as quickly as he’d come, and the janitors as well.

  Phibes closed the organ stops and then walked down the aisle. The wind had blown out some more candles plunging the church into an even deeper blackness.

  His last few days were spent in exploration. He didn’t know when he’d get back to the Continent so he wanted to take in as much as he could of the city, as well as a side trip to Verdun. Years of shortages had given the Majestic a noticeably seedy aspect so he tended to leave early on his walks, taking his morning coffee at the nearest shop. It must’ve been just after nine on the second or third morning of his explorations when he found himself crossing the Seine at Mirabeau Bridge, just minutes away from the hotel.

  It was a bright and sunny day - ‘cheerful’ in the language of the travel brochures - when he came upon a man near the middle of the bridge walkway. Remarkably, the man was in uniform, although from its frayed and rumpled condition, Phibes imagined that the man had long since been discharged.

  What he couldn’t imagine was the man's dour manner. What had made him thus?

  You loved her? he guessed as he approached this forlorn figure.

  So much so that you wanted to jump off the bridge? Phibes was surprised by his own directness. But this veteran had all the appearances of a man near the end of things.

  No.

  You wanted to swim the river back into her heart?!

  No.

  Once a woman says ‘no’, there's no approaching her? Is that what you think?

  The man shook his head.

  Until she says ‘yes’.

  Ah! The Rosetta Stone of courtship! Phibes continued. How to get that ‘yes” from the one you love.

  I wasn’t going to jump into the Seine. Too messy. Newspapers. The police. One's relatives and friends fawning over your corpse.

  The man had a backbone after all.

  Fawning?

  Of course. Death fascinates, especially when it's someone else's.

  Ghoulish spectators. Schadenfreude.

  No! No boche. They killed us!

  And you, them.

  War is killing.

  And love?

  It's all the same.

  So you were ready to throw yourself in the river for…?

  Louise? No! True, I loved her heart. Her breasts. Her hair. But…

  But?

  Her father was a military man. An admiral, no less! And I’m not a coward.

  Impressive! How you can be so analytical, so detached…even while you're caught up in the throes of love? Here Phibes paused reflectively.

  So it's Lou, you call her?

  Yes, Lou! I cannot speak personally. It's too much!

  But you must not despair!

  The soldier nodded, his eyes, his cheeks arched in defeat.

  You want another ‘yes’ from her. You want her to say ‘yes’.

  The soldier's eyes hardened as if he were on sentry duty. Phibes went on softly, respectfully of the man's displayed - and very raw - feelings.

  Then she must not say ‘no’. Nor should you give her a chance at the negative.

  VICTORIA

  Victoria Regina de Guire, the pampered daughter of Nacio and Eduard (Eddie) de Guire, was propelled across the Atlantic by her mother for the obligatory - but abbreviated because of the war - Grand Tour. She had just completed her sophomore year at a women's college in the Berkshires and she was keen for adventure. That she had a standing invitation from her roommate's parents to spend the summer with them at their Lake Country Estate made the Grand Tour all the more timely.

  The year was 1928.

  Victoria sailed on the SS Northumbria on June 24 of that year. It was a gorgeous late spring morning and New York harbor was dancing with flotillas of pleasure boats. Her parents had come down to see her off and after the last minute cautions and tearful hugs, she clambered up the gangplank with the rest of the stragglers. As if on signal, confetti and balloons rose up from the main deck and with an enormous blast from her horns; Northumbria lunged away from the pier.

  From her perch on the top deck, Victoria smiled at the disappearing blur down on the pier and clutched at her travel bag. Inside, her mother had tucked a perfectly folded voile peignoir scented with her favorite: patchouli.

  As the great liner got underway, a smart breeze picked up to ruffle the finely marcelled hair of the ladies in first class. Victoria, her hair protected by a smart green cloche, took the breezes full on. The Northumbria was brand new; the latest in her class of fast ocean liners on what was the final leg of her maiden voyage. Her bow cut the water in a very clean “V” - not a whisk of whitewater to be seen - the mark of a spotless hull.

  Victoria had left the railing and started toward the bow at a smart pace, reaching that apex just as Northumbria was abeam of the Statue of Liberty. She caught a glint of yellow in her eye, the flash of Lady Liberty's torch. They were passing through the Narrows. Beyond lay the open ocean, 3000 miles of the blue-green Atlantic waters, and beyond that the even vaster expanse of the Continent.

  Victoria closed her eyes and spoke to the wind: OOOOWEEE…..!!!!

  Northumbria docked at Liverpool on a blazingly hot July morning - the third day of a most unusual heat wave in this port city. Victoria was used to the heat, liked it in fact. The #2 seed on her school's tennis squad, she served up a 97mph cannonball and was a backcourt power hitter. Once she charged the net, she couldn’t be dislodged. Victoria loved to win and she won often.

  The Olmstead's cabriolet met her at dockside. The chauffeur - his pearl grey tunic buttoned up to the collar despite the heat - held the door while she clambered into the back seat - where several bunches of lilies awaited her.

  The drive to Old Ironsides - the Olmstead's ancestors served that Great Commoner - was brief but not brief enough to escape the stifling heat.

  The Lake District, its soft undulating hills sparkling with patches of blue water, today wore a slick greasy sheen - a product of the sunrays boiling up the morning's dew from the turf.

  Victoria had never met the Olmsteads, knowing them only through their daughter. But today they took her into their manse like family, sending the servants to carry her luggage from the cabriolet and leading her to the rear of the household where, on the stone balcony shielded by a rainbow of bright parasols, a lunch of finger sandwiches and punch had been laid out.

  The flatware and crystal service signified much about the Olmsteads’ status to anyone who wished to know. Democratically, Victoria didn’t. She was so hungry - the shipboard fare had been awful - that she barely covered the conversational niceties before she gave her attention to the spread, devouring half a dozen sandwiches and downing two tumblers of punch in a wordless affirmation of the Olmsteads’ hospitality.

  She's an American, Mrs. Olmstead whispered to Gerard, her husband of two glorious decades.

  No answer was forthcoming. Gerard Olmstead was used to his wife's enthusiasms. Indeed, he liked them very much. Tanis likes to billow, he confided to his friends with a sly wink, and pillow!

  In Gerard Olmstead his friends saw the never-changing athlete. Trimmed, tanned, toned, he was the man they all wanted to be. His hints and sly asides only piqued their jealousy even more. Word was that the Olmsteads were real rompers, which in fact they were. It was an unadorned lust that ruled their at-home moments today just as it did when they first met.

  Gerard couldn’t keep his hands off Tanis. Even in public he would grab and feel her at the slightest opening, sliding his hands up beneath her skirts or loosening her brassiere whilst standing behind her in the lift, happily cupping her freshly-freed breasts; th
is sport artfully concealed by some topcoat or other that Tanis wore whenever they were out in the streets.

  Gerard Olmstead was fiercely careful of his wife's discretion. Never would he compromise himself over someone else no matter how exquisite, how accomplished she might be. He was un-temptable.

  Didn’t Tanis ever tire of it - this cornucopia of affection that he showered on her? On the contrary, Gerard kept her in constant heat, so much so that she would often shift her position and part her thighs so he could slide his finger deeper into her vulva during their daily strolls.

  Tanis had her own way of ’cumming’ - deep and often. Like all women, Tanis Olmstead was fiercely possessive of the things that mattered. The thought that any of the ladies in her circle might get wind of Gerard's prowess so unnerved her that she absolutely refused any mention of her husband to them - an omission which set her friends to chatter mercilessly about Mr. Olmstead's ’concealments’ behind her back. This knowledge only added to Tanis’ rigors with her hubby.

  And so like all things forbidden, Gerard Olmstead became all the more desirable to their ‘circle’ as the years passed - the satyr of their dreams, the one fixed image of their afternoon delights. But their veiled - and not so veiled - hints at bringing her husband along on one or another affair were met with Parnassian indifference by Mrs. Olmstead.At first, Victoria was immune to the household heat, so caught up was she in her Grand Tour. It was a chance sighting of her hosts that opened her eyes. She had stepped out onto her balcony to take in the twilight breezes when she spotted the Olmsteads on their own balcony. Mr. Olmstead had his arms around his wife's waist as they seemed to be admiring the late afternoon vistas. The shadows were falling and the pair was almost in silhouette when Victoria spotted a patch of bare skin just below Mrs. Olmstead's beltline. Looking closer, Victoria saw that Tanis’ bloomers were draped around her ankles and that her husband's muscled and trouser-less frame was grinding a knowing circle into her backside.

  In that instant, Victoria Regina de Guire felt the first stirrings of her own desire.

  This inflammation never left her during her the remainder of her stay at Old Ironsides. Indeed, it just kept growing, providing the young American with many fevered nights (and heated days as well). She played tennis every day with anyone who would hold a racket to her. But there really was no competition for their talented houseguest so Mrs. Olmstead, ever the gracious hostess, arranged a tournament of sorts. There were three championship courts on the grounds. The 100-pound prize money attracted some of the better players in the Lake Country, but few of them proved equal to the young American's cannonball serve and ferocious net game.