I, Dreyfus Read online

  I digress. But do I? These ramblings of mine are part of my story. Are they not the very core of the accusations against me? Are they not the summary of my condemnation? No. I do not digress. On the contrary, I am moving towards the centre.

  I must pause now. I expect a visit from Mr Temple. He will have seen Lucy and the children and, loath as I am to stop writing, people are more important than the pen.

  Chapter 8

  Sam Temple came straight from the zoo. He had deliberately asked for that appointment time so that his report would be fresh and credible. He hoped that the odour of the monkey house where they had spent most of their time still clung to him, so that Dreyfus could be a vicarious participant in their outing.

  When Sam entered the cell, he noted the strewn papers on Dreyfus’s desk and he was heartened by their untidiness. They somehow hinted at a greater freedom. Dreyfus rose quickly when he entered, and smiling he stretched out his hands in welcome. Sam could not help but compare this openness and warmth to the rigid frigidity of their first meeting. He assumed, and with a certain satisfaction, that the change was due to work, to the writing, to the unburdening of his onerous load. They sat side by side on the cot.

  ‘I’ve just been with them,’ Sam said. ‘We went to the zoo. All of us. Lucy, Matthew, Peter and Jean.’

  ‘Where were Susan and the children?’

  Sam had prepared himself for this enquiry. ‘She had to take them to her mother’s,’ he said. ‘It was a long-standing arrangement. Next time, perhaps.’

  Dreyfus seemed to accept the explanation but Sam wondered how long he could remain ignorant of his sister-in-law’s treachery.

  ‘Tell me all about it,’ Dreyfus said. He oozed the excitement of a little boy who’d been too young to be invited to a party.

  So Sam faithfully recorded their zoo itinerary, from the elephant house to the monkeys, to the aquarium and the snakes, and then again to the monkeys, the pandas, the bears, the birds, and the monkeys once more. At each port of call, he reported on the children’s enjoyment, especially Jean’s, and how Peter took care of her, lifting her up to read the signs on the cages. He described their imitation antics but he did not mention the occasional comments of the passers-by. ‘Look, look. Aren’t those the Dreyfus children? And their mother. What a nerve!’

  Dreyfus said not a word, but he chuckled and smiled the while. ‘And how is Matthew?’ he asked when the story was told.

  How can I tell him how Matthew is, Sam thought. ‘He’s well,’ he lied, picturing his saddened countenance and how he had forced himself to be part of the treat.

  ‘What does he do all day?’

  ‘He sees a lot of Lucy and the children. He and Susan,’ he lied. ‘I like him a lot. He’s a decent man. He’s passionate about your innocence. Every day he’s seeing people and pleading for an appeal.’ This latter part was true. Matthew had shown him a list of all those names that had the power to re-open his brother’s case. He was petitioning them all.

  ‘I miss him you know,’ Dreyfus said softly. ‘Lucy too of course. But Matthew is a blood absence. Somehow it’s different. Tell me about the children,’ he said after a while. ‘How do they look?’

  ‘They look like Lucy. Both of them. Beautiful.’ Sam smiled. ‘I managed to get them a tutor. His name’s Tony Lubeck, a son of a friend of mine. He’s working on a thesis for his Ph.D. He goes to your house every day. He has a shaggy appearance and he’s rather eccentric. Peter and Jean love him.’

  ‘You have been good to me, Mr Temple,’ Dreyfus said. ‘I hope one day to repay you.’

  It was a good moment to move on to the second purpose of Sam’s visit. He was curious as to the progress of his client’s book, though he didn’t want to push him.

  ‘How’s the book going?’ he asked as casually as he was able.

  ‘I’ve discovered I enjoy writing,’ Dreyfus said. ‘I look forward to it every day. I don’t know whether it’s good or not, from a writing point of view that is, but it’s certainly good for me.’

  ‘Would you like me to read it?’ Sam asked. ‘Just for an impartial opinion.’

  Dreyfus hesitated a while. ‘I think not,’ he said. ‘I feel it would be like giving you my diary.’

  Sam was disturbed by this response. If Dreyfus already regarded his work as a private confession, he might well baulk at its final publication. But he did not want to make an issue of it. It was too soon. Yet it worried him. He felt he had to make some comment.

  ‘It may well be a private pursuit,’ he said, ‘but in the end its purpose is to vindicate you, to prove your innocence, of which thousands of people are already convinced. It’s not only for them that you are writing, it’s for your own accusers to prove to them their miscarriage of justice.’

  ‘At the moment it’s for me,’ Dreyfus said.

  Sam decided to let the matter rest. He would ask no further questions about the book’s progress or its matter. In his time he had come across many writers with a similar initial reticence and in time that reticence was overcome by simple vanity. And Dreyfus, for all of his integrity, was human like the rest of them and subject to that same failing.

  ‘I’m not yet quite sure of its shape,’ Dreyfus volunteered.

  Sam was relieved for he thought he saw a shadow of conceit.

  ‘Perhaps next time you visit,’ Dreyfus suggested. ‘But I don’t want to change anything,’ he said. ‘Not for the sake of better sales or more money. I won’t have a single word altered.’ His tone was faintly angry.

  Sam smiled. Here was his client with but a few infant steps into his first book, and already he was talking like a writer with all the swagger and arrogance that was simply a veil for a crumbling lack of self-confidence and self-esteem. Sam was satisfied. His new client might well turn out to be a best-seller.

  ‘Does it have to be chronological?’ Dreyfus ventured.

  Sam was now beginning to hope that he would leave the cell with part of the manuscript under his arm. ‘There are no rules,’ he said. ‘If your mind is working in a non-chronological way, and this is common in confessional writing, then it is right for you. In the end, the logical progression manifests itself. I wouldn’t worry about chronology.’

  Dreyfus seemed relieved. And even grateful. He crossed over to his desk – it required only a few steps – and he tidied the pile of papers he had written. Sam felt a surge of hope, but Dreyfus quickly returned to the cot empty-handed.

  ‘I keep going back to my childhood,’ he said.

  ‘Naturally,’ Sam assured him. ‘That time was seminal.’ ‘Then out of that comes a thought or an event that belongs to adulthood. I – I’m not sure that it’s right.’

  Sam allowed a pause. ‘Would you …’ he started.

  ‘D’you mind reading it?’ Dreyfus asked.

  His surrender had come sooner than Sam had expected. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I would be happy to.’

  ‘But I don’t want any criticism, I just want to know if it works.’

  Sam expected that warning too. ‘No criticism,’ he repeated. ‘Just does it work.’

  ‘I’d be grateful,’ Dreyfus muttered. He went to his desk again and gathered up the pile. ‘I don’t want anybody else to see it,’ he said nervously. ‘Only you. I want your promise on that.’

  ‘You have it,’ Sam said taking the pile. He put it in his briefcase trying to hide his excitement, as if this were part and parcel of his daily routine. ‘I shall make a copy of it,’ he said, ‘and see that it is returned straight away.’ He rose to leave. ‘Is there anything I can do for you on the outside?’ he asked.

  ‘You are doing enough,’ Dreyfus said. Again he put out both hands.

  ‘Come again soon,’ he said. ‘And please call me Alfred.’

  ‘Only if you call me Sam.’

  They shook hands again and Sam felt that on his next visit even an embrace might be on the cards. He called the guard. As the cell door opened, Dreyfus whispered in his ear.

  ‘Take specia
l care of Matthew,’ he said.

  Sam Temple hurried back to his office. On the way, Dreyfus’s last request echoed in his ear. He sensed that Dreyfus knew of Matthew’s torment and if not the details of it then of his overwhelming despair. He must have suspected it in Matthew’s last visit, or perhaps Lucy had inadvertently hinted at it. It was hard to keep such betrayal a secret. He was moved by Dreyfus’s concern. He resolved to be in touch with Matthew. And on his own. Take him to dinner perhaps. He would ring him from his office. But first he had to make a copy of the manuscript. This he did himself, mindful of his promise to show it to no one else. As he ran it through the machine, he tried not to look at its content. He was saving it up for himself as a treat. When the copy was made, he sent the original by courier to the prison. Then he settled down at his desk and told his secretary that he was not to be disturbed.

  ‘But Mr Wallworthy has phoned twice,’ she said. ‘He said it was urgent.’

  ‘I’m not in the office,’ Sam said, ‘and you don’t know when I’ll be back.’

  He knew why Wallworthy was calling. He was becoming nervous of his investment. He wanted to see something on paper. That Dreyfus man had had long enough to make a start. He would insist on seeing a sample. ‘I have to arrange a jacket,’ would be his excuse. ‘I have to fashion a blurb.’ Sam Temple had heard it all before. Wallworthy could wait. He, Sam Temple, had no doubt that Wallworthy’s investment was in safe hands. He poured himself some coffee from his thermos and settled down to read.

  There was not too much of it. Merely a beginning, written in a neat and confident hand. There were no crossings-out, no side-notes. It was clearly a first draft that was intended to be the last. He took a sip of coffee and started to read. Within the hour he had finished and there was no doubt in his mind that Dreyfus was a writer. His words were driven by rage, bewilderment and an offended understanding, and he had no doubt that all those forces would be maintained. He had to confess to some uncertainties about the occasional polemic, but he would not offer it as criticism. Indeed, as Dreyfus had wished, he would offer no criticism at all and he would assure him, and quite sincerely, that the lack of chronology in no way disturbed the continuity. Then he wrote to Dreyfus, calling him ‘Alfred’, and added lines of fulsome praise and encouragement. Before he signed the letter, he phoned Matthew to make a dinner appointment, so he could pass this news on to Dreyfus as proof that he had taken note of his last whisper. He signed himself ‘Sam’ and had the letter posted right away. Then he poured himself some more coffee and lit a rare cigarette and, leaning back in his chair, he inhaled with pleasure.

  Then the phone rang. ‘It’s Mr Wallworthy again,’ his secretary said. ‘Are you in or out?’

  ‘I’ll take it,’ Sam said. There was no point in stalling the poor man any longer. As he expected the publisher was anxious about his investment.

  ‘Are you in touch with him, Mr Temple?’ he asked.

  ‘I saw him this morning,’ Sam teased.

  ‘How is it going?’

  ‘He’s writing.’

  ‘Yes. But how much has he written? And have you seen any of it?’

  ‘I don’t know how much he has written,’ Sam lied, ‘and no, I’ve seen nothing. I don’t think he wants to show it to me yet.’

  ‘Well, that’s not good enough,’ Wallworthy spluttered. ‘I’m entitled to see at least a sample of what I have bought. I insist on it, Mr Temple.’

  Sam was patient. ‘There is nothing in the contract, Mr Wallworthy, that entitles you to view the work before it is finished. Unless of course it is Mr Dreyfus’s wish that you do so.’

  But surely, as his agent, you are curious as to its progress?’

  ‘Indeed I am, Mr Wallworthy,’ Sam said, ‘but again it has to be my client’s wish. And I must respect that.’ He could smell Wallworthy’s exasperation down the line.

  ‘Well I hope I haven’t made the most terrible mistake,’ the publisher said.

  ‘I’m not in the least bit worried,’ Sam assured him, ‘and I ask you to have the same faith.’ He felt slightly sorry for him. ‘I assure you, Mr Wallworthy,’ he said, ‘I shall try to persuade Mr Dreyfus to show his hand.’

  ‘I’ll leave it to you then,’ Wallworthy said.

  But Sam had no intention of hurrying Dreyfus. A deadline would unnerve him. He had most of the day to work in. But he needed diversion. An amusement of sorts that would not tax his mind. He was due to meet Matthew in an hour’s time. He would remember to ask him if his brother played chess.

  Sam reached the restaurant well before time so that he would be ready for Matthew’s arrival. He had chosen a small unknown bistro off the Kings Road. Even so, when Matthew entered, Sam distinctly heard the whispers of ‘Dreyfus’ around the occupied tables. Matthew’s face was as well known as his brother’s. Every petition he made – and there were many, to influential people in sundry professions – was documented and photographed and the public viewed him with as much disdain as they did his brother. He was brave to venture out at all, and to be seen with him, especially in pleasant exchange, rendered one vicariously stained. But Sam was not phased. Indeed he showed off his friendship. He shook Matthew’s hand warmly and rested his other hand on his shoulder as he sat down. Then, before seating himself, he gave a challenging look to the other diners. The waiter showed no sign of recognition, and they ordered quickly to get it over with so that they could enjoy conversation. Sam reported on his latest visit to the prison, but he said nothing about the manuscript. There was a silence while their orders were placed before them. They wanted no eavesdropping.

  Then Matthew spoke. ‘You know about my problem,’ he said.

  ‘I know the bare bones,’ Sam agreed. ‘Lucy told me.’

  ‘I’d like to tell you about it if I may. It is, of course, of vital importance that it is not known.’

  ‘You can trust me,’ Sam said, ‘as I think your brother does.’

  Matthew looked around him. He spoke in a whisper, fearful of being overheard. ‘It’s not only that Susan has changed her name. And those of Adam and Zak, my children. That would be bad enough. But there’s worse.’

  Sam saw the man’s distress and he wondered what could be worse than his wife’s betrayal.

  ‘I’m almost ashamed to tell you,’ Matthew said. ‘I haven’t even told it to Lucy. It would break her heart.’

  ‘Are you sure you want to tell it to me?’

  ‘I have to tell somebody,’ Matthew said. ‘You’re the only one I can trust. There is absolutely nothing you can do about it, but it would be a relief to unburden myself a little.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ Sam said.

  Matthew put down his knife and fork and leaned across the table. ‘It’s that Susan actually believes that Alfred is guilty. She told me so,’ he whispered, and Sam noticed a flush of shame budding on his cheek. ‘She actually believes that he did it. To imagine that Alfred would be capable of such a heinous crime. It’s unthinkable.’ His voice was breaking. Sam didn’t know what to say. He would have liked to meet with the woman and give her a good talking-to. Even if she believed that her brother-in-law was guilty, it was her bounden duty to stand by him. In any case he could not argue with her. He had no more proof of Dreyfus’s innocence than had Matthew. It was just that he could not begin to believe in his guilt and he knew that many, many others shared his opinion.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. Then after a pause, ‘Have you tried talking to her?’

  ‘We’re beyond dialogue,’ Matthew said. ‘Or conversation of any kind. I come from a silent house, Mr Temple,’ he said. ‘Even my children look at me with suspicion as if they have caught the verdict from their mother. I don’t know what to do,’ he said helplessly. ‘I can’t leave her. That would set tongues wagging. And she can’t leave me for the same reason.’

  It seemed that he was talking to himself, setting forth the pros and cons of his choices, though he knew that he had no choice at all. Sam allowed a silence and then he said, ‘
There is nothing you can do. Nothing.’

  Matthew looked at him. ‘It has helped to tell you at least,’ he said. Then as an afterthought, ‘And Alfred is so fond of her. He thinks the world of her.’

  ‘And he must go on thinking so,’ Sam said. Then after another silence, ‘What about the children?’ he asked. ‘And their schooling?’

  ‘Well, they have a new name now. They’re even getting used to it. They practise it aloud as if to taunt me, and I feel betrayed.’

  Again the flush on his cheek. ‘I think Susan has made enquiries at another school. Over the river. She’ll cook up some story or another.’

  ‘She’s taking a risk,’ Sam said.

  ‘She knows that. I think she almost wants the name change to become public. Then she could openly leave me and take the children. Then Alfred would read about it in the papers and that would be the end for him.’

  Poor Matthew was at the end of his tether, and Sam feared for him.

  ‘You must keep yourself strong for your brother,’ he said. It sounded like lame advice, but he was at a loss as to how to comfort him. He wanted to kill Susan for the extra torment she was causing. Then he had an idea.

  ‘Perhaps you should get away for a while. I have a cottage in Surrey. There’s no one there at the moment. My family are in London this week. It’s quiet and peaceful. You could put a little distance between you and your problems. Take walks, listen to music, read. I’m sure it would help. Come back to the office with me. I’ll give you the keys and the address.’

  Matthew smiled. ‘You’re taking a risk too, you know,’ he said. ‘Lending your cottage to a Dreyfus.’

  ‘No one need ever know,’ Sam said.

  ‘Why are you so good to us?’ Matthew asked.

  ‘I believe your brother is innocent.’

  As they left the restaurant, they heard the whisper of ‘Dreyfus’ once again, but this time Matthew reacted.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, to all and sundry, ‘I am Matthew Dreyfus, and my brother is innocent.’