Would it be indelicate to ask your mother’s name?
She didn’t want you to know, I said. I’d rather not say, if you don’t mind. I must have hurt her very badly.
No, she—she just realised it was over and thought there was no point. She had enough money and didn’t want to trouble you.
How extraordinary. If we’d parted on bad terms I could understand if she’d felt miffed, but you say there was nothing of that kind. And yet she chose not to tell me something rather momentous. She must have a very low opinion of me—I am glad it has not prejudiced you against me.
No, no, I said. She said she didn’t know you very well.
Then she must have assumed the worst, surely?
He was taking slow drags on the cigarette, then speaking, then smoking again.
I’m sorry to question you so closely, but you must see that this is rather wounding to say the least. I freely admit that I have none of the uxorious virtues, but that’s scarcely synonymous with an abdication of obvious responsibilities—I’d always thought the women I’d known had understood the sort of man I was. I’m not a very deep character, you know—it’s pretty easy to get my measure on short acquaintance, and if women don’t like it they don’t stick around for very long—certainly not long enough to get to a bedroom. Or is that just shorthand for a one-night stand?
Yes, I said.
I see, yes, that makes a little more sense.
He smoked again.
If you’ll forgive the question, though, am I the only candidate?
She was working in an office with mainly women, I said. Then she met you at a party.
And was swept off her feet. And this was when? How old are you?
Twelve years ago. 11.
And where? In London?
I think so.
There’s just one thing I can’t quite understand. What harm could there be in telling me the name of a woman I knew so briefly? Why should your mother care?
I’m not sure.
I see.
He stubbed out the cigarette.
It’s all nonsense, isn’t it?
I was silent.
What put you up to it, a newspaper?
No—
You want money?
No.
I felt slightly shocked. It had happened so quickly.
Have you ever seen Seven Samurai?
A long time ago. What about it?
Do you remember the scene where Kyuzo has the duel?
I’m afraid I can’t remember their names.
Kyuzo is the one who isn’t interested in killing people.
I forced myself to speak slowly.
He fights a match with another samurai with a bamboo sword. He wins, but the other man claims it was a draw. So Kyuzo says, If we’d been fighting with real swords I’d have killed you. So the other samurai says, All right, let’s fight with real swords. So Kyuzo says, It’s silly, I’ll kill you. So the other samurai draws his sword, and they fight with real swords, and he’s killed.
Yes?
So I went to see my real father three months ago, just to see him. I didn’t say who I was. I was standing in his study, and I thought, I can’t say I’m his son, because it’s true.
He had been watching me with very bright, alert eyes and an impassive face. His eyes brightened further.
You could say it to me because it wasn’t true? he said. I see!
He saw it in a single second. He laughed suddenly.
But this is marvellous!
He glanced at his watch (gold of course).
Come in and tell me more about it, he said. I must hear more. Was I your first victim?
The fourth, I said.
I caught myself about to apologise and stopped myself from saying something idiotic.
The first three were terrible, I said which was a little like an apology. Two believed me and one didn’t. They were all terrible. Then I said it wasn’t true and they didn’t understand.
You astonish me.
Then I thought of you. I hadn’t before because I don’t play bridge.
Don’t you? Pity.
I thought you’d understand. I mean, I thought if you didn’t believe it you’d still understand.
He laughed again.
Have you any idea how many paternity claims I’ve faced?
No.
Neither have I. I lost count after the third. Usually it’s the alleged mother who presents herself, with the utmost reluctance you understand, for the sake of the child.
The first time it happened was dreadful. I’d never seen the woman before in my life, or at least I’d no recollection. Instead of at once being suspicious I was horribly embarrassed—how shocking to have so little recall of a tender moment! She said it had been a few years—how wounding, you know, if she had changed so much for the worse!
At any rate I came to my senses sufficiently to ask a few questions. The thing looked more and more fishy. Then I had what I thought was a stroke of genius. I fancied myself a perfect Solomon!
I said: Very well, if the child is mine, leave it with me. I undertake to bring him up on condition that you make no further contact with either of us.
My thought was, that no mother would surrender her child on such terms to a perfect stranger. I’d scarcely uttered the words when I saw my mistake—saw the terrible temptation in the girl’s eyes. It was then that I knew for a fact that the child wasn’t mine: it was like playing an ace first trick and watching a rank beginner agonise over whether to trump. My heart was in my mouth, I can tell you!
What would you have done if she’d accepted? I asked.
I’d have had to take it, of course. Play or pay—not a very noble principle, perhaps, but only consider the sacrifice required to abandon it, for the mere paltry momentary advantage of ridding myself of this unexpected encumbrance. Life is such a chancy business, you may lose everything you have at any moment—if a stroke of luck can rob you of whatever it is you live by, where does that leave you? Easy enough to say now, but by God I was sweating bullets as I looked at the homely little brat—it’s an absolutely infallible rule, by the way, that the infants brought forward in these circumstances are ugly as sin. Its mother holds out a little red-faced, squalling thing and assures you without a blush that there is a striking resemblance. Without being unduly vain I like to think I am at least passable; it’s a terrible blow to the self-confidence to find the imposture not rejected out of hand for sheer implausibility. It is a point in your favour that you did not offer me that insult. Is your mother pretty?
Yes, I said, though it did not seem the right word. So what happened? Did she go away?
Eventually. She told me she could not let me take the child because she thought I was an immoral person. It seemed rather a case of the pot calling the kettle black, but I was too relieved to object. I assured her at once that I led a life of unparalleled viciousness, and that a child introduced to this sink of iniquity could not fail to be irredeemably corrupted. I claimed to be a regular user of a host of pharmaceutical products; I said my sexual appetite had become so jaded it could not be roused if there were fewer than four billowy beauties in the bed; I described in lurid detail sexual practices with which I will not sully your ears, to use an unhappily or, you may think, happily outmoded expression.
I was trying to keep a straight face.
And that worked?
Like a charm! Whatever the temptation to be rid of the child, she could not deliver it up to such a monster without losing face. Instead she went off and sold the story to the tabloids—how she could not reconcile it with her conscience to take money from a father of such depravity. Of course the papers adored it. I wish I’d kept a few—I remember one absolutely killing headline about Five-in-a-bed Father. I saw it unexpectedly on a newsstand and simply screamed with laughter—but like a fool I didn’t buy a few hundred to send to friends. We live and learn. Of course, it’s true that she hadn’t retracted the claim and I suppose it may have given one or two people the wrong idea, but escape seemed cheap at the price.
Have you had breakfast?
Yes.