From Blake’s seat, he could clearly see the expression of the judges and the président as they made occasional notes. The height of the bench, combined with their splendid robes, made them seem like powerful beings. At the same time, he could see a smudge of lipstick on Jugge Boreau’s cheek and a crumb of bread on the sleeve of Jugge Quinn. Only Président Nichols sat immaculate, with the solitary air of a headmaster – a studied stare at the lawyers when they challenged; a genial yet authoritative look to the jury (Blake had to turn his head sideways to see them. They were largely middle-aged, middle-class, and of middle-intelligence, he suspected).
Now that the trial had commenced, the interpreter was busy in Blake’s ear. Mademoiselle Paradis was a plain woman in her early forties (he supposed). She wore a strange, purple sash over her shoulder, like she was a member of some minor royal family; her breath smelt of onion soup – perhaps from the canteen downstairs? ‘He says that we will now hear the report on your personnalité. Afterwards, he will call the witnesses.’
A report on his personality? How French! What would it say about him? He was faintly amused by the notion. At the same time, his skin prickled. After so many hours of questioning, so many pauses for breath and raised eyebrows, nods and grimaces… In some ways, it was worse than having your actions judged – these he felt he could account for, largely – but his state of mind, his way of thinking, his view of the world. These were private, surely, and quite beside the point?
The same clerk who had read the charges now stood to recommence his duties. He was a short, effeminate man, with a very neat appearance, and an affected way of speaking. His tone was so even and perfectly nuanced that Blake could follow much of it; the interpreter echoed words back into his ear that were not as smooth in English, and smelt of onions; he was not offered a written translation, which he would have much preferred.
‘Monsieur Blake Knox is a twenty-seven year old schoolteacher. His teaching subject is English and his most recent employment was at the Chaucer School in South-East London. He appears to have a broad, if superficial, understanding of his discipline, and is fond of reciting from both literary and philosophical writers. The manner of his speech is pretentious at times, but otherwise he speaks openly.’
Superficial? Pretentious? Perhaps there were occasions when he might say things he either didn’t understand or didn’t mean, but who didn’t? And, who had made these judgements? On what basis? Could he challenge this? When?
‘But…’ he started to say.
‘Non!’ hissed his lawyer.
He felt sweat drip down from his armpits to his stomach, which protruded a little for some reason – was it the angle he sat at? Had he put on weight in the last few months, waiting for a trial? Was this the beginning of a downward slide for his body, as well as his mind? How depressing!
He remembered one conversation about his reading and studies with Inspecteur Sauveur; at the time he had assumed such questions were designed to make him feel relaxed so that he would talk more freely about details relevant to the case. Now he thought about his comments on Shakespeare, Kafka, Kundera, Marquez… and he blushed. Yes, he could have done better, especially in terms of filling in the gaps around literary terms, which he had floating in the air like stray metaphors.
‘Monsieur Knox has the appearance of a confident young man, though this masks a range of insecurities which Madame Doctor Ames sees as primarily stemming from issues of self-esteem, perhaps indicating a difficult period during adolescence when he became fixated on his own image. Certainly there are indications of a complex, unresolved personal identity, and perhaps sexual orientation,’ continued the clerk.
Hang on, thought Blake, hang on! And he didn’t hear the next five minutes; instead he leant forward, his face glowing, wondering where they got that from. From his genre-breaking protagonist, Sally? That little piece of analysis (to be generous) probably reflected more on Birna than himself. He remembered her beside him, glowing under the lamplight, her words confirming a recent direction in his narrative for Sally, who was – in every other way – Birna’s opposite. More like Elizabeth, actually, his formerly-steadfast fiancée.
‘Who said I only like men?’ she responded to a question he’d put about her experience with antipodeans.
‘You mean you’ve had an Australian girlfriend?’ he asked. ‘South African? Kiwi?’
She laughed, leant over, switched off the light. ‘Sleep now, writer.’ And she had fallen asleep, quite quickly – and so quietly! He, on the other hand, had tossed and turned, and slowly begun to think of his betrayal. As the effects of the scotch wore off he’d gone from elation to a slow, crippling despair, before an early morning slumber had come in a sudden wave. Then he slept heavily, and woke to an empty bed and the sound of bicycle tyres on gravel.
No, he didn’t think there would be much to say about his sexual orientation. A difficult adolescence, that was true, and sometimes, yes, he had felt confused about who he was exactly, but all this was rather unfair. Did he get a chance to reply at least?
‘Monsieur Knox is an egoist who parades his intellectual capabilities by memorising and reciting quotations from philosophy and literature, quotations he relates to personal anecdotes that place himself at the centre of an heroic struggle for truth against a general backdrop of deception. However, there are strong indications that Blake Knox is himself a fantasist and compulsive liar.’
This was too much. Accusations levelled against his actions were one thing. These might be verified or denied by fact. But to launch a one-sided attack on his personality in public to all and sundry was surely an attack on his human rights!
He began to move about in his seat; small noises came from his throat. It seemed he had absolutely no control over them.
‘The accused is asked to remain quiet!’ thundered the président.
‘But,’ Blake stammered, ‘this is outrageous!’
‘Outrageous is the crime of which you are accused!’ the judge returned. And then he spoke in a softer tone, as one might placate a child. ‘You will have a chance to respond in due course.’
‘Okay,’ said Blake. ‘Okay.’
And so he listened again, and this time more reasonable things were said about him, and he began to relax a little more into his seat. After a while, his mind drifted in and out of the banal scene the courtroom had begun to resemble, as the greffier spoke on in careful, moderate phrases, and his trial began to feel like something quite separate to him, something belonging entirely to someone else. It belonged to an egoist Australian (did they mean egotist? It sounded like that to him) who resembled him but who he knew not.