The Pen Friend

It’s easy to remember

I had spent a week planning a new approach to my Esperanto book (it would be written in longhand with various fountain pens for one thing, each appropriate to a particular strand of the narrative) when your second card arrived, and threw me somewhat out of kilter. Lightning does strike twice. I remember hearing, in 1983, midway through our time together, of the death of the man — an American park-ranger — who had been struck by lightning seven times in his life. And statistics show that it is more likely for a person to be struck by lightning in the United Kingdom, than to be the victim of a terrorist attack; though whether that applied to Northern Ireland in the 1980s, and to Belfast in particular, might well require another computation. In any event I did not know whether to be more surprised by your second missive than by the first. On reflection, perhaps I had subconsciously expected it. Viewed by itself, that first postcard was unprecedented; or, retrospectively, it was a postscript, an addendum to our previous correspondence, however protracted the interval, the culmination of a long concatenation of mental processes which did not necessarily include me, of circumstances beyond your ken perhaps, of planetary influences for all I know, which led inexorably to your decision to communicate yourself to me again through those few words; and when I thought about it, I realised that when we say, It’s been a long time, we usually intend it as the preamble to a mutual reminiscence, queries as to how the other party has been faring all those months or years. It opens up a conversation. And when we part we say, We must keep in touch.

This message was equally laconic: It’s easy to remember, you wrote. Again, you left no signature. The stamp was postmarked London, one week after the first. I pondered the words for some time, thinking that there are many things which are not easy to remember, that there are things so forgotten as to be beyond recall, or that there are things whose implications will be fully realised only in the future, and even then perhaps not by the person whom they most concern. Be that as it may, I was more struck by the image on your postcard than by your words, as I presume you had intended. The caption on the back bottom left reads thus: Two Dutchmen and Two Courtesans, Hanging Scroll, ink and colours on paper, Japan (Nagasaki), about 1800. And on the bottom right, V & A Encounters, the meeting of Asia and Europe 1500–1800, sponsored by Nomura.

The image was familiar to me because I had seen its original in that very exhibition, held in the Victoria and Albert Museum in the autumn of 2004. On 9th October, to be precise, on which day I attained the age of fifty-six: it was my birthday gift to myself to spend a few days in London, a city I have always loved, a city that you loved. And it struck me that you might have been there that day in the V & A, that you might have seen and known me, however changed I was, whatever I’d become, you might have shared the same gallery space as me, and breathed the air that I breathed. We might have brushed against each other unwittingly, or unseeingly. I had visited the museum shop at the end of my visit. Perhaps you bought the postcard then, one of a batch as aides-mémoire of the exhibition, which had lain forgotten in a drawer until now. Or it was meant for someone else, and thinking twice you thought better of it. Perhaps it was intended for me all along, that even then you planned it. I could have bought that very card myself, but was distracted by a book on eighteenth-century costume; and perhaps as I browsed its colour plates of elaborate brocades you were paying for this card I keep flicking my eyes to as I write, and I was oblivious to the beep of the till that signalled the transaction.

Two Dutchmen and Two Courtesans: when we went out for our first meal together, you insisted it should be a Dutch treat, and when I demurred, you said it was only proper, since you were half-Dutch. I saw a glint in your amber-flecked eye. The name on your birth certificate was Bouwer, you said, and you had changed it to Bowyer by deed poll when your father died. Bouwer meant ‘builder’ in Dutch; you had always disliked it. Your father, Arie Bouwer, had been active in the resistance movement known as PAN — Partisan Action Netherlands — founded in 1943 in Eindhoven, where he was an electronics engineer in the Philips factory. As you told me something of his story, an image of the Philips Bakelite radio I used to listen to as a child flickered in and out of my mind’s eye, and I saw myself spinning the needle past the lit linear blips of the stations, Athlone, Hilversum, Warsaw, Moscow, to a storm of gabbled languages and machine-gun bursts of Morse and static. The partisans, you said, had been organised into cells which communicated chiefly by telephone, and your father had been instrumental in further refining the system by linking it to the underground cabling of the Eindhoven factory. Everyone in PAN had a nom de guerre; when they did meet face to face they wore masks. No member knew the identities of the others, beyond their being agents of a common cause. And what was your father’s nom de guerre? I asked. He was known as Harry, you said, and when I queried the efficacy of an alias that was so close to the original, you replied that the best place to hide a thing was in plain sight, and referred me to the Edgar Allan Poe story, ‘The Purloined Letter’, where the letter in question has been stuck by the thief in a letter rack, under the noses of the investigating constabulary, and only the private consultant Dupin — the precursor of Sherlock Holmes — has the eyes to see that the letter has been disguised as itself.

Given the Dutch connection, I thought it only proper to write this with a Merlin pen, made in the Netherlands in about 1948, the year of my birth and of your father’s marriage to a Yorkshire woman, Eleanor Birtwhistle. You showed me a photograph once of her when she was your age, and you have her dark hair, her high cheekbones and slightly flattened, up-tilted nose, the same broad smile, the same assured stance. She is a Chief Executive Officer in the Imperial Civil Service, a rare achievement for a woman at that time. She is wearing a salt-and-pepper tweed suit with a box jacket; on a lanyard around her neck she wears your Dinkie pen, and its red and black candle-flame seems to glow against her white blouse, even though the photograph is in black and white. As for this pen I hold now, it is in mint condition, one of a number of new old stock recently discovered in a Delft stationer’s. It had never been inked when I received it, and it is a paradoxically uncanny feeling, to be writing with a pen as old as I am when there are no ghosts of other hands behind it, as if I were writing when it was new, and I am born.

The body of the Merlin is patterned in shimmery layered feathery lines of tawny brown and cream, like the plumage of the bird it was named for; and I consider again how many fountain pens there are of avian nomenclature — for pen, after all, is from Latin penna, a feather, or a quill, an etymology I did not fully realise until I became, as it were, a fully-fledged collector of pens. There are pens called Swan, Jackdaw, Swallow, Blackbird, Eagle, Condor, and Wing-Flow. The companies that made them are all defunct. There is a pleasant story behind the German firm of Pelikan, still producing fine pens today. It was founded in 1878 by Gunther Wagner, whose family crest of a pelican was adopted as the logo of the company, to symbolise a familial allegiance to its employees, for the pelican is famously protective of its brood. The family pelican was depicted with three chicks; but another was added to the Pelikan logo at the last moment, when it was found that Wagner’s wife was expecting their fourth child.

Some months ago I stumbled on a rare find in Smithfield Market, a Staffordshire ceramic quill-stand which more fully illustrates the pelican legend. In Christian art, the pelican is a symbol of charity; it is also an emblem of Christ the Redeemer. St Jerome gives the story of the pelican restoring its young destroyed by serpents, by feeding them with its own blood, and his salvation by the blood of Christ. The misconception as to the pelican’s feeding habits apparently arose from the fact that the parent bird macerates small fish in the large bag attached to its under-bill, whereupon, pressing the bag against its breast, it transfers the macerated food to the mouths of the young. The quill-stand consists of just such a family group, with holes for two quills on either side, though apparently its makers have never seen a pelican, for the bird lacks its characteristic long beak; but it is clearly identified by the salient features of its legend. The pelican pecks angrily with its diminutive nib at a green snake coiled around its body; its breast is red with blood, and at its feet lie three pink featherless chicks, yet to be revived. Jerome, as the translator of the Bible into Latin, is the patron saint of translators and interpreters, and elsewhere he draws an explicit parallel between blood and ink: translation by transfusion, as it were. I am reminded that solemn covenants are often signed in blood, that thousands of Ulstermen did so in 1912, swearing allegiance to the King, and to oppose the plans to set up a Home Rule government in Dublin; and that four years later thousands of those Ulstermen would die in the blood-bath of the Somme.

I open my veins in a manner of speaking to write to you. I have been looking at your postcard on and off for some days, examining the poised, hieratic body language of the foursome, who are like partners in a stately minuet, the distances between them at once intimate and remote. The Dutchmen, who at the onset seemed to me both graceful and incongruous, like aliens in our depictions of them, have become more familiar now, and I can see a glimmer of meaning in the folds of the women’s kimonos. But I cannot read the Japanese characters of what seem to be a good few sentences of writing in the top right corner — a bawdy song? A satirical verse, a description of Dutch costume? I decided to research the background to the image, and discovered the following.

The first contact between the West and Japan occurred in 1542 when a Portuguese ship, blown off its course to China, landed near Nagasaki. They brought with them something the Japanese had never seen: firearms. They also brought their religion, and in subsequent years converted a number of the feuding warlords of Japan, who were eager to trade with the bearers of guns and Christianity. In 1600 the first Dutch contact with Japan was made when a Dutch ship captained by an Englishman was also blown off course by a tempest, and landed near Nagasaki. Slowly the Dutch established themselves as rivals in trade to the Portuguese. They were careful not to proselytise; the standing of Christianity in Japan ebbed and flowed depending on political circumstances. In 1636 Christianity was banned, and the authorities ordered the construction of an artificial island, Deshima, in the harbour of Nagasaki, wherein the Portuguese were interned. Being man-made, it was not considered part of the sacred soil of Japan. A year later the Portuguese were expelled altogether, and the island was given over to the Dutch. It was tiny, with a perimeter of some five hundred metres, about half the size of Dam Square in Amsterdam. From 1641 until 1859 — the period of Japanese national seclusion — Deshima was the only place where trade between the West and Japan was permitted. The permanent staff of Deshima comprised a director of the Dutch East India Company and some ten employees, among whom were a physician, a cook, a blacksmith, a carpenter, a musician and a scribe. A short bridge connected the island to Nagasaki — to Japan — and for many years no Japanese, save prostitutes and interpreters, were allowed to cross over; nor were the Dutch allowed on to the mainland, except once a year, when they were escorted under armed guard to the shogun’s court in Edo, where, as part of their ritual homage, they were required to perform Dutch songs and dances.

I had particular reason to be fascinated by this history of Dutch — Japanese relations, for my father had corresponded with representatives of both nations through the medium of Esperanto. I thought of how useful Esperanto would have been for that first contact in Nagasaki. As it was, the lingua franca at the beginning of East — West encounters had been Portuguese, and there were enough significant differences between Japanese Portuguese and Dutch Japanese as to make conversation occasionally hazardous. And I wondered what kind of linguistic relationships might have developed, what kind of creole might have evolved between the Dutchmen and the Japanese courtesans — did they have pet names for certain acts, or for each other? — though it also occurred to me that for certain physical engagements gesture alone would have been sufficient.

As time went by, the strict rules governing the Dutch factory, as it became known, were relaxed, and many samurai began to travel to Deshima for Dutch Studies, or Rangaku: medicine, chemistry, astronomy and weaponry. Deshima means ‘fan-shaped island’, and I learned that in Japan fans were not merely decorative, but were used as musical instruments, serving-trays, and umbrellas. Fans with steel ribs were employed as weapons by the samurai. The language of fans had an extensive lexicon of gesture, and virtually anything could be depicted on a fan: animals, flowers, peacocks, people, mountains, valleys, skies, and places such as Deshima itself, where the little maze of buildings is shown in all its microcosmic complexity: the reception area, the tobacco store, the vegetable garden, the kitchen, the pigsty, the music-room, the brewery, the bath-room, the still, the dining-room, the forge, the flag, the lookout post, the powder magazine, the guest-room, the gun-room, the chicken-coop, the workshop, and little vignettes of the entire population of Deshima in their offices, the company director being entertained by three courtesans, the physician by two, and the rest of the staff by one each, except for the scribe, who is holding a goose between his knees as he plucks it for quills, while through his window we see a ship about to set off for the Netherlands, laden with silks, jade, tea, porcelain, spices, ivory, and fans.

I open our past like a fan. Angel, you used to call me, for I had been named for the Angel Gabriel. Gabriel, the messenger of God, sent by Him to Mary to proclaim the mystery of the Incarnation, is patron saint of the postal services, and of stamp collectors: my father had been appointed Inspector in the Royal Mail, a rare achievement for a Northern Ireland Catholic, shortly before my birth. And you too were a messenger, not of one god but of many, so I called you Rainbow, Iris, that was what I called you then. Iris Bowyer. You remember? It’s easy to remember. We’d been going out together for two or three weeks. You’d taken me up on my offer to take you to the Gallery on one of my days off. I’d met you in the XL Café first. You were wearing a lovely pre-war men’s jacket, pale green linen, that you’d bought in Second Chance. I thought they only sold women’s stuff there, I said, and you said, No, if you go upstairs there’s a good few rails of men’s, there’s a very nice 1940s suit there, single-breasted, dark blue check tweed, about your size, it’d look great on you, though maybe you wouldn’t wear it as a suit too often, too formal. But you could buy it for the jacket alone, not to mention the waistcoat. Wear them as separates. You put your hands to your lapels as if draping yourself in another, invisible jacket, and I envisaged myself wearing it, the soft fall of the tweed.

Under the linen jacket you’d one of those Indian silk tight bodices that were in at the time, a retro hippy look, bottle-green with red embroidery, and you were wearing loose white linen trousers with red wedge-heeled one-strap sandals. And what else? Yes, you were wearing a new perfume, it was like amber smoke over green leaves after a shower of rain. What’s it called? I said. Ee, you said, and I thought this to be one of your Yorkshire turns of speech, and you laughed and said, Ee, maybe I should have said Why, you said, it’s the letter Y. Ee as in Yves St Laurent. Ee, French for there. So here we are, I said, and you’re wearing a perfume called There. You remember. A scent for every occasion, I said, you’re like Andy Warhol’s calendar of perfumes, I said, and you said, What? Not quite a calendar, more like a memory-bank, I said. He bought a different perfume every day or so and stored them in a writing-desk. Then he’d open a bottle every so often, maybe one from a couple of months ago, or last year, and sniff the perfume, get that powerful olfactory hit, just to remind him of that time, that period which was already history, or maybe he just wanted to remember when he’d bought them, there and then, the bright aura of that particular transaction. Warhol loved buying things. And selling things, of course. I do business, not art, he used to say, I said. You could say he sold souvenirs, you said, that’s why they place the perfume department, the illuminated signs for Coty and Givenchy, Guerlain, Lancôme, Elizabeth Arden, at the entrance to the big stores, because the perfumes and the names remind you of the last time you were there, and all the other times, all those layers of pleasurable smells. And you want to buy that again and again, you said. Even though you pay mostly for the name, and not the thing itself. You remember?

And we talked a little more about Warhol. I’d been working on a rather fanciful essay linking Gerard Dillon and Warhol. Of course their methods were radically different. But it seemed to me that neither could be fully understood without reference to their Catholic backgrounds. Warhol, born in Pittsburgh, where he was raised as Andrew Warhola, was of intricately European ancestry. His parents had emigrated from Ruthenia, then in Czechoslovakia; they were neither Czech nor Slovak, and spoke a Carpatho-Rusyn dialect. They were devout Byzantine Catholics. From his childhood Warhol was continually in the presence of icons, and in a manner of speaking all his paintings are icons. As for Dillon, he came from the Catholic Falls Road district of Belfast, and he too was deeply influenced by Catholic iconography. My father and he were born in 1916, within a few days of each other, I said, within a few days of the Easter Rising in fact, and they went to school together. Slate Street School. You wouldn’t believe it, I said, but my father learned to write on a slate, they still used them then. You shivered. Oh, I could never bear that squeak. Like chalk on blackboard. I imagined you writing on a blackboard as a child, standing on tiptoe, your careful embryonic handwriting. Yes, I said, and Gerard Dillon used to paint on slate. He’d paint on anything, old bits of cardboard or discarded timber. When he left school he was apprenticed to a house-painter. Learned to burn off old paint with a paraffin blow-lamp, scrape off wallpaper with a shave-hook, mix the paints, that kind of thing. He’d paint on the bare walls before they were re-papered. I’m sure there’s still a few houses standing in the Falls Road that have early works by Gerard Dillon on their walls, and nobody knows it. And at home he begged his mother to teach him how to use a needle and thread. He did a few tapestries in the early fifties.

Both Warhol and Dillon, I said, were devoted to their mothers, and both were homosexual, Warhol more ostentatiously so, not that my father ever mentioned Dillon’s sexuality. For him, Gerard Dillon was the painter of the Falls Road, and of the West of Ireland, and of icons. A good Catholic. There’s a lot of death both in Dillon and in Warhol, I said, death and resurrection. The image as a way of circumventing death. Warhol’s repeated takes on Marilyn Monroe and Jackie Kennedy, for instance. Their very repetition makes us remember them. And Warhol’s obsessive repetitions are a refusal to let go of the image, an insistence that we look again and again, that we do not forget. It doesn’t matter whether the image is of a soup can, or a Coca-Cola bottle, or a shoe, or a Chanel No. 5 bottle. Warhol also made repeated images of electric chairs, car crashes, race riots, the atomic bomb, he did portraits of murderers and movie stars, and they are all about death and memory, they glorify the image of the thing or the person. The memorable icon that outlasts its subject, or that represents eternal subjects.

And we can’t imagine Warhol without his use of silkscreen printing. Silkscreen is actually a very fine nylon mesh, a gauze almost. You apply the ink with a squeegee and the ink is squeezed through the tiny holes in the screen to make the image. A surface of endless silkscreen dots which the viewer sees as a can of beans, a Coca-Cola bottle, a Marilyn, whatever. Imagine your skin’s a silkscreen, and we wrap you in a winding-sheet, and you sweat blood or whatever on to the fabric. A kind of Turin Shroud effect. Not that you’d get too many prints out of it. A very limited edition. But you can print any number of copies off a silkscreen without the image deteriorating too much. But for all that, every print is unique, because the ink is applied a little differently each time, you get an uneven inking of the roller, or the screen slips a little. Warhol liked that degree of routine error, the porosity and seep and bleed of silkscreen. All my images are the same, he said, but very different at the same time. Isn’t life a series of images that change as they repeat themselves? he said. And Warhol liked to quote Edvard Munch, who said, We see with different eyes at different times. We see one thing in the morning, and another in the evening, and the way one views things depends on the mood we’re in. That’s why one subject can be seen in so many ways, and that is what makes painting so interesting. I believe he said something like that, I said.

We were walking past the City Hall by now, and the Royal Ulster Constabulary band was playing in the grounds, their silver instruments shimmering and blaring in the heat. We were hand in hand, swinging along to the beat of the music. They were playing the First World War marching song, ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’. As we threaded in and out of the crowds a man jostled accidentally against me, apologised, then took a little formal back-step of astonishment and exclaimed, Gabriel! Gabriel Conway! How long has it been! How are you? and then, as he registered your presence, another back-step, side-step rather, he cried, Miranda! and we disengaged our hands and moved apart a little, the whole sequence like a figure in a minuet, an intricate toing and froing, Miranda Bowyer! Well, well, fancy meeting you together! Small world, or what!

I stared at him, then at you, dumbfounded. I’d been trying to place him — the face was familiar, but the name eluded me — and now all that ran through my mind was Miranda, Miranda, Iris, Rainbow, and I stood not hearing your conversation, as the police band music dimmed and swelled around it through the buzz of the crowd. I felt weak. Miranda. In a kind of trance I noted his clothes, the charcoal chalk-stripe suit, a little heavy for the weather, but nicely cut, the blue silk tie with a muted silvery grey diamond pattern, the faint blue herringbone shirt, a legal kind of look. He had cupped his hand to his chin and was smiling at whatever you were saying, I caught a glimpse of a cuff and cuff-link, a black stone set in silver, and then, turning to me, he said, And you, Gabriel, still in the Gallery? I nodded. You? Oh, communications, that kind of thing, we should get together some time, I’ll tell you all about it, but for now, must dash, do let’s keep in touch. Gabriel. Miranda. And he vanished into the crowd.

Well, I said to you, so what’s all this? Miranda, I said with heavy irony. Or Iris. Or whatever you might be. Oh, Angel, you said, don’t be silly, you’re not upset, are you? And I put my hands in my pockets and lowered my head and pouted my lip in a classic huff, and said nothing. But Angel, you said, what should it matter what I’m called? And am I not Rainbow, anyway? No, I brought myself to say, how can you be Rainbow, when you’re Miranda? If Miranda you are. Or did you lie to him? And then it came back to me who he was; he was Tony Lambe — Baa, we called him, he’d been in my year at university, but he’d dropped out and gone to London, what, eleven, twelve years ago, he certainly seemed to have gone up in the world. Miranda’s the name on my birth certificate, you said, but so what? Well, you didn’t tell me the truth, that’s what, I said. You didn’t tell me your name. No, you said, it was you who told me, remember? And weren’t you pleased that you were able to tell me my name? I was pleased that you were pleased, so I let it go. I quite liked being Iris. And then, with vehemence, you said, Why should we be bound by our names? Can’t we be anyone we please to be?

I’m still writing this with the Merlin pen. Merlin the bird of prey, the little falcon, merlin that is related to the French or Scots word merle, a blackbird, Merlin the wizard and the architect of Camelot. To be precise, it’s a Merlin 33 — I have another Merlin, in marbled grey and black swirls, called Merlin Elegant — and when I first got the 33 I wondered if this number were chosen for some esoteric or cabalistic significance. Pythagoras says that the world is built on the power of numbers: I discovered that in classic numerology the numbers 11, 22 and 33 are master numbers, not to be reduced to a single digit if they correspond to an individual’s name, and that the number 33 is that of avatar. More interestingly, I learned that the Merlin was the last of a series of aircraft engines designed by Rolls-Royce, which included the Kestrel and the Buzzard; that versions of the Merlin engine had powered the Hurricane and Spitfire aircraft that were instrumental in winning the Battle of Britain; and that the Merlin 33, specifically, had been used in the De Havilland Mosquito night-fighter and reconnaissance aircraft which made forays into Dutch and German territory during the latter course of the war. It had also been used as a transport aircraft for the Dutch Resistance. So it was entirely possible that the Merlin 33 fountain pen, designed in the Netherlands in 1948, the year of my birth and of Arie Bouwer’s marriage to Nell Birtwhistle, was a tribute to those missions, and to the engine which made them possible. The pen as bird of prey, the pen as aerial observer and communicator. And I wondered what connection your father — Harry the spy, as he was known to some — might have had with all this.

I discovered after some hours searching the Internet that on 11th April 1944 a group of six De Havilland Mosquitoes of 2 Group, 2nd Tactical Air Force, armed with five-hundred-pound incendiary/high explosive bombs, flew to The Hague. Their target was the Gestapo-controlled Dutch Central Population Agency, which PAN had ordered to be destroyed to prevent identification of the false IDs that were so crucial to their clandestine operations. The Agency was located beside the Peace Palace, which, as home to the Court of International Justice created by the League of Nations in 1922, enjoyed extra-territorial status, and was not considered to be part of the Netherlands. Great precision was required on the part of the bombers. In the event, the pilot of the second Mosquito reported that he clearly saw the bombs dropped by the first skip in through the doors of the target. The Peace Palace was unscathed, and the Mosquitoes, powered by their Merlin 33 engines, escaped with only minor damage to one aircraft. The Agency was totally destroyed, and with it the official identities of the entire Dutch population. In a footnote to the article which detailed this information, the name of the PAN agent who passed on the order was given as ‘Harry’.

So what’s in a name? you said. A rose by any other name, is that it? I said. It was true, I had felt rather pleased with myself when I named you; and now I realised the emptiness of that gesture. I’m sorry, I said. Rainbow. Miranda. The police band was playing ‘Pack Up Your Troubles’, and, as the chorus came round, we both burst into song together, Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag, and smile, smile, smile. And smile we did, if a little wryly. But I felt that both of us had betrayed ourselves, that we had participated a mutual confidence trick. And I didn’t know whether to call you Rainbow or Miranda. Both seemed somehow false now.

Some days later I called into Isaac Beringer’s antique shop in Winetavern Street. I’ve known Beringer for almost as long as I can remember, and he doesn’t look much older than he did when I was a child, when I was introduced to him by my father. Beringer has a photographic memory, and knows not only the present contents of his shop, but can relate the history of every piece, clocks, watches, pendants, snuff-boxes, rings, spoons, anything that has passed through his hands over the years, its provenance, its defining characteristics, its current market value. I once asked him how he did it. Oh, it’s very simple, Mr Gabriel, he said. I’ve been born into this shop — and it was true, his father, Isaac the Elder, had kept the shop before him — and I know it as well as myself. Better, maybe. Every display case, every shelf, every drawer, every cubbyhole — and he gestured around him — I can see them with my eyes shut. And I know where everything is. Where everything was. I’ve got them all filed away. You might say they’re like people, and I remember their faces, and I have little stories for them, so one reminds me of another, the way you say so-and-so is like so-and-so. Take this piece, for example — and here he picked up a silver snuff-box — nice box, made by David Pettifer in Birmingham, 1854. Year of the Crimean War, Charge of the Light Brigade, got it last week for a song in the Friday Market. And I see this snuff-box in the pocket of an English officer, a tall man with big moustaches, you’d know him anywhere. In another pocket he’s got his father’s watch, nice movement by Barwise, 1790s, I sold it six months ago. You see how it works? I just make up stories about them.

But the watch wouldn’t have been in the officer’s pocket before you had the snuff-box, I said. No, said Beringer, I had another story for the watch then, involved an antique pistol, the case had a little dent in it when I got it, so I thought maybe there’s been a duel, the watch belongs to this brash youth, you know the sort, all piss and vinegar, and the other chap’s bullet hits the watch, youth escapes unscathed, you know the kind of thing that happens in stories. Or sometimes in real life, I said. True, said Beringer. That’s why the stories change. Because things in real life change all the time, even when they stay the same. Depends on the way you look at them.

And what happened to the other chap? I said. Oh, said Beringer, brash youth, he’s shitting himself, pistol all over the place, but he manages to get your man in the leg. Wound went septic, had to amputate. Chap’s a cripple for the rest of his life. Most unfortunate, really, brash youth was in the wrong, chap hadn’t been looking at his woman at all. But then there’s never really much justice in these things, is there?

So there I was in Beringer’s shop and I said I was looking for something special. For a lady. Lady friend? said Beringer. Well, acquaintance, I said, and Beringer gave me the ghost of a wink. Well, he said, maybe you wouldn’t want to get too close then. A pendant wouldn’t do. Certainly not a ring. Nor earrings. Now here’s something — and he pulled open a drawer and took out a scent bottle — Lalique glass, he said, lovely thing, L’Air du Temps by Nina Ricci, 1948. He handed me the bottle. It was indeed lovely, with a swirled bowl of pale yellow, the stopper in the form of two intertwined doves in opalescent frosted glass. Yes, said Beringer, L’Air du Temps, Spirit of the Times, just after the war, you know. Love and peace, that kind of thing. Of course it’s empty, but you can still smell the perfume. I unstoppered the bottle and put my nose to its mouth. Sandalwood, rose and jasmine breathed out at me. I thought of the paintings of Botticelli, of Venus emerging from the waters on her scalloped shell. So I bought the bottle, and I gave it to you. Of course you knew what it was at once, and you were delighted. L’Air du Temps by Nina Ricci, 1948, the year my parents married. The Lalique bottle came later, 1950. Thank you so much, Angel, do you know I used to call myself Nina when I was a child, because Miranda was such a mouthful, and my father called me Nina, though my mother would insist on Miranda. So you became Nina then, and you are Nina still to me. And I wonder if you still have the L’Air du Temps bottle, and if its perfume still lingers.