Free Jackson's Dilemma by Iris Murdoch Page A

random. Now, having left his studio and climbing up the stairs, he entered this room, searching for something. He pulled it out at last, a portrait he had painted once of Lewen Dunarven. He studied it for some time. He put it back again. Not a good likeness. He came out. He felt tired and wanted to lie down upon his bed. However he decided to go up further and look out of the fifth floor window. The fourth floor here, detained him, consisting of a handsome rarely used guest room and opposite, Owen’s special treat, his dark room, whose walls were covered with very interesting photos, including (among the mild ones) a picture of Mishima posing as Saint Sebastian, mentioned recently by Benet. Mishima had died at his own hand. What monumental courage it must take to slash one’s stomach open, knowing that an instant later a kind friend would remove one’s head. A pity there was no available photo of that.
    On the fifth floor, which covered the whole area, Odradek, pet of Kafka, reigned. Everywhere senseless, nameless and timeless entities lay in piles, cardboard boxes, containing unconnected unnameable things lay piled one on another, heavy soiled garments, long ago devoured by moths, innumerable old books, no doubt of great value, kicked to pieces, ancient letters some unopened, broken china, broken glass, ancient newspapers, collections of stones - Owen picked his way to the window and looked out. Below him, stretching away, there were green gardens, filled with bushes and tall trees and backs and fronts of houses, beyond him and above him was the blue enormous sky and just below it, London.
    Owen turned away with a sigh, kicked some entities aside, and reached the door. He slowly descended the stairs as far as the reasonably tidy drawing room upon the first floor. There was a large mirror above the fireplace. He looked at himself in the mirror. His copious hair, which had been genuinely very dark, almost black, was now successfully dyed completely black. He had put on weight. Did anyone notice? It didn’t matter. His aggressive profile remained the same. Uncle Tim had once likened him to a toad, a particular toad in the garden at Penndean. Owen liked toads. He went to the telephone and released it. Almost instantly it rang. It was Mildred.
    ‘Oh, Owen - have you heard anything?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘We’ve been in touch with the police. You haven’t thought of anything?’
    ‘Thought? No.’
    ‘You know Benet came back late last night. Has he rung you?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Were you out?’
    ‘I turned the phone off.’
    ‘Of course, you were working. Are you all right?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘May I come and see you? I won’t stay long.’
    ‘Mildred, just fuck off please.’
    He put the telephone down and switched it off again. He sat down in one of the deep armchairs and covered his face with his hands.
     
     
     
     
    Benet was standing upon the doorstep of a large house near Sloane Square, which was very familiar to him, though he had not visited it for a long time. He was disturbed to notice how anxious he now was, as a mass of memories crowded upon him. He straightened his tie and smoothed down his ruffled red-brown hair. He rang the bell. The bell was familiar. He waited.
    The door opened. Anna Dunarven appeared instantly, smiling.
    ‘Oh Benet, I’m so glad to see you! We had no time to talk properly down there, come in, come in, what’s the news of Marian?’
    ‘No news, alas, not yet. Anna, forgive me for coming suddenly like this, I ought to have written, I couldn’t find your telephone number and - ’
    ‘Yes, yes, I changed it, I should have given it to you, anyway here you are, follow me, you know the way of course, everything is the same, isn’t that strange!’
    He followed her into the memorable drawing room, he saw the sun shining upon the garden, they stood together by the window.
    ‘Those trees have grown.’
    ‘Yes, that’s what I thought at once when I came back. They’ve kept it all very well,