The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper(34)

The young man looked as if he was going to close the door, but then he said, “Would you like to come inside? You look like you could do with a sit-down.”

It was only when he said this that Arthur realized that his ankle was threatening to lock up. He had been walking since he had met the man with two girlfriends at the café. “That would be most kind.”

“My name is Sebastian,” the young man said over his shoulder. His feet made a sucking noise as he padded across the mosaic tiles in the hallway, leaving prints that vanished after a few seconds. “Please. Make yourself at home.” He waved toward a door. “Would you like tea? I don’t like to make it for just myself.” His eyes were wide, full of longing.

“I would love tea.”

Arthur opened the door and went into the room. Each wall had floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with books. A long stepladder was propped against a wall. The furniture was made from heavy dark wood with worn velvet-padded seats and cushions in shades of ruby, sapphire, gold and emerald. The ceiling was painted indigo blue and specked with silver stars. Wow, Arthur thought. He stood on the spot and turned. The room was like a film set. He didn’t want to sit down. He wanted to circle this room and reach out to touch the books. There was a large oak rolltop desk positioned in the bay window, looking out into the street. On it sat an old typewriter with a piece of paper, ready for De Chauffant to conjure up another masterpiece, or plagiarize. Arthur moved closer to see if there were any words on the crisp white sheet. There were not. He felt a brief wave of disappointment. He wasn’t artistic or creative himself, so it intrigued him that people could earn a living through painting or writing.

It was only after a while that he noticed that the sideboard was coated in dust. Mugs were dotted around the parquet floor. Chocolate bar wrappers poked out from behind the cushions on the sofa. All was not as glossy as it first seemed. Arthur selected a chair upholstered in chartreuse velvet and sat down.

Sebastian came back into the room. He carried a red-and-white polka-dot plastic tray upon which sat two chintzy teacups and matching teapot. He set the tray on a coffee table, pushing a pile of magazines onto the floor. Arthur reached out, picked them up and put them on another chair.

Sebastian didn’t acknowledge this, as if it was normal to create a mess as he went along. “Here we are,” he said. “Shall I be Mother, and pour? That is how you say it, yes?”

“Yes.” Arthur smiled. He stopped himself from reaching out to help when he saw the young man’s hand trembling.

“So.” Sebastian handed Arthur his cup and saucer. He pointed his finger in turn at chairs dotted around the room, then picked the largest one, which had stuffing poking out from the corner of the faded teal upholstery. He tucked up his feet. “Tell me about your wife. Why are you here?”

Arthur explained about the bracelet and how he was tracing the story behind the charms, so he could learn more about Miriam before they met. “I am learning more about myself, too,” he admitted. “With each person I encounter, with each story I hear, I feel as if I am changing and growing. And maybe others benefit a little from meeting me also. It’s a strange feeling.”

“It must be exciting.”

“It is, but I feel guilty, too. I am living but my wife isn’t.”

Sebastian gave a small nod as if he understood. “I felt alive once, too. I was here, I was there, I was excited. Now I am here. Trapped.”

“You’re not really trapped, are you? I mean, you can leave here when you want...?”

Sebastian waved his hand dismissively. “Let me tell you about my life, Arthur. While you are discovering yours, mine is dying. This may sound dramatic, but it is how I feel. Fran?ois and I were together for a couple of years before he forgot who he was. It started with small things—he forgot to turn off the lights, he lost his spectacles. Everyone does these things, yes? It is easy to put the breakfast cereal in the coffee cup cupboard, or lose your shoes under the bed. You come upstairs and forget why, or buy a bottle of milk when you have some in the fridge. Except Fran?ois nearly burned the house down.” His eyes grew watery with emotion. “He went upstairs for his afternoon nap—always between two and four. I leave him alone during these times, so he can regain his strength before he starts to write again. I came into the bedroom to wake him and the bed was on fire. Flames, reaching almost as high as the ceiling. Fran?ois just sat looking out of the window. He didn’t even notice that he was in danger. I ran like a gazelle, took a blanket into the bathroom and ran the shower to dampen it. Then I used it to smother the flames. The mattress was black, smoking. And still Fran?ois he said nothing. I took his shoulders. ‘Are you okay?’ I asked. But he stared at me blankly. It was then that I knew that his mind was gone. He would never be brilliant again.”

A strange feeling crept over Arthur, an awareness that Sebastian wasn’t talking about De Chauffant as an assistant would. “How did you meet him?”

“I came to London four years ago and worked at a nightclub, behind the bar. My employers spoke to me badly and cut my wages if I broke a glass. I was too young to stand up for myself. Fran?ois came in one night with friends and we chatted, about this and that. He started to come in most nights. We talked each time for three weeks and he offered me a job. He said it would be part housekeeping, part admin tasks and part keeping him company. I found him fascinating. I was flattered that a famous writer was interested in me. I moved in to help and our relationship developed from there.”