Conditie van muzak

by Michael Moorcock

  “Merry Christmas! Merry Christmas!” Down the main street, between the plaza on one side and a court of frozen fountains on the other, comes the huge sleigh with Santa Claus at the reins, drawn by six white ponies in green and black harness, with scarlet plumes on their heads, nostrils flaring, eyes flashing in the light from the huge triple globes on standards at intervals along the concourse, their rays diffracted by the falling snow. The crowd cheers. People pause to look. Harlequin crosses in front of the sleigh, just in time, dodging into the comparative peace of a narrow, northbound street. Little houses lie on either side now and in the window of each is a splendid Christmas tree alive with candles and bunting. From the doors come the smells of log fires, of roasting goose and capon and turkey and guinea fowl, of puddings on the boil, of beef and ham and sausages and pork pies, pickles and sugar plums, carp and codlins—all enough to tempt the palate of the most jaded libertine—but Harlequin hurries on. “Merry Christmas!” call the red-cheeked old men as they turn into their gates. “Merry Christmas!” sing the housewives and older daughters, in aprons and headscarves, opening their doors to their loved ones, their friends and neighbours.

  “Merry Christmas!” cries the tall airship pilot, home for the holiday, his kitbag over his shoulder. “Merry Christmas!” reply the postman, the baker, the muffin-man.

  But Harlequin replies to none of them, running on down the winding snowy street, darting in and out of the shadows cast by the sputtering lamps. Now dark figures leap from a gateway, dressed as knights, a dragon, a Fool, a Saracen:

  And a mumming we will go, will go, and a mumming we will go;

  With a bright cockade in all our hats, we’ll go with gallant show!

  It is the mummer’s play with St George and the Dragon, taking their entertainment from house to house, to anyone who wishes to see it. The Fool blocks Harlequin’s path, cap and bells a-jingle:

  “Alas, alas, my chiefest son is slain!

  What must I do to raise him up again?

  Here he lies before you all,

  I’ll presently a doctor call,

  A doctor! A doctor! Are you a doctor, sir?”

  Harlequin dodges to one side of the Fool, smiling, waving, on down the street. Harlequin comes to a crossroads between tall buildings. High above lights still burn in windows, illuminated clocks display the time, a board flashes the schedules of the airship and the Super-Concorde flights and black shapes of family flying machines drift across the glare. At the corner, beside a lamp post, an old man smiles at Harlequin, turning the handle of his plunking barrel organ. A monkey in a velvet jacket and cap shivers on his shoulder. The man’s voice is as old and as steady as Stonehenge. “A pleasant Yuletide to you, Arlekin.”

  Harlequin bows and runs on. In the distance now, at the bottom of the hill, is a glory of twinkling electric bulbs decorating a magnificent building whose front aspect dominates Ladbroke Grove. Of porphyry and jade and marble and lapis lazuli, the building is a palace from a dream, built by a genie for Aladdin. In all this magical city there is nothing more vibrant than the Palace in the Enchanted Dale. It glows so that, from here, it seems the snow avoids it, or is melted before it can settle, yet the white lawns surrounding it deny this and here, too, the water of the fountains is frozen, reflecting all the colours which blaze from the house. The snow has settled on the hedges and the walls, it lies heavy on the shoulders of the statues and the ornamental beasts, on pathways and flower beds, shrubs and tubs, the poplars, cypresses, oaks and elms, all erected on the site of the legendary Convent of the Poor Clares Colettine where so much of Old London’s history was made. Set back from the bustle on the hill, the palace seems a zone of tranquillity in all the Christmas merriment—but there is merriment here, too.

  Harlequin darts through open gates which are decorated with Christmas wreaths, along paths, over hedges, through clumps of trees, across lawns, to stand at last at the side of the palace and peer through the holly-framed windows of the ballroom where red velvet curtains have been tied back to reveal a magnificent Christmas tree dominating a crowded hall. The dark green pine is trimmed with globes of scarlet and white, bunting of silver and green, a golden star. The hall itself is hung with laurel and holly wreaths, with ivy garlands, with mistletoe, and lit by hundreds of tall candles in crystal chandeliers. The warmth and the light pour into the garden where Harlequin hesitates and studies the guests. It is a masque that Harlequin witnesses, a masque that draws the hidden figure closer as if yearning to join. Harlequin sees all the old familiar characters of the mummer’s play, of mime and pantomime, of folklore and traditional tale—Widow Twankey, Polichinelle, Abanazar, the Demon King, Mother Goose, Jack Frost (a genuine albino with crimson eyes), the Green Knight, Scaramouche, a rather lost-looking Pierrot, Hern the Hunter with his stag’s antlers; a Fool, in motley with bladder, and bells, St George, Captain Courageous, Gammer Gurton, Buffalo Bill, Peter Pan, the Babes in the Wood, Cinderella, Britannia, Dick Whittington, and someone dressed in a Harlequin costume almost identical to Harlequin’s own; Queen Mab, Prince Charming, Robin Hood, Robinson Crusoe, Sleeping Beauty, Puss in Boots, Pantaloon, Goody Two Shoes, Hereward the Wake, Puck, Gog and Magog, Lady Godiva, King Canute, Blue Beard, Dick Turpin, Hengist and Horsa, the Three Wise Men, King Arthur, John Bull, the Fairy Godmother, Cock Robin, Father Neptune, Jack-o’-Lantern, Sweeney Todd, Doctor Faustus, Jenny Wren, the May Queen, Humpty Dumpty, Old King Cole, Sawney Bean, Springheeled Jack, Charlie Peace, Queen Elizabeth, Mr Pickwick, Charley’s Aunt, Jack Sheppard, Romeo and Juliet, Doctor Who, Oberon, the Grand Cham, a Dalek, Old Moore, Falstaff, Little Red Riding Hood, Beowulf, Renyard the Fox, St Nicholas, Boadicea, Noah and Mrs Noah, Jack the Giant Killer, Mother Hubbard, Beauty and the Beast, the King of Rats, Yankee Doodle, Nell Gwynn, John Gilpin, Baron Münchhausen, Alice, Sitting Bull, Ali Baba, Little Jack Horner, Asmodeus, Mother Bunch, Sinbad, Dame Trot and her cat; there was a badger, a bull and a bear, a wolf, a cow, a sea-serpent, a dragon, a hare, a cock and an ass, old men dressed as young women, old women dressed as young men, girls dressed as boys, boys dressed as girls, so that another observer might have thought he witnessed some innocent Court of Misrule.

  Harlequin held back from entering, partly because of the false Harlequin within, partly because in all that company only Columbine was not present. Laughter washed from the hall as a band played a sprightly Lancers and the guests danced in long columns, up and down the ballroom, round and round the tree, clapping and whistling, leaping and pirouetting, fingers on hips, wrists raised, bowing, prancing, arm in arm, hand in hand, shouting with merriment and good humour: the ballroom shook to their feet as figures in elaborate silks and velvets, in laurel, in Lincoln Green, in cloth-of-gold, in brocades, in motley, in animal heads, in scarlet and black moleskin, in hoods, capes, cloaks, tabards, doublets and hose, in leather and lace and living plants and flowers, in painted wood and padded fur and polished metal, masks and powder cosmetics, wigs and false noses, silver- and bronze- and gold-gilding, whooped and giggled and bent their bodies in the ritual of the dance.

  The windows rattled, the log fire blazed, the candles flickered, the creatures of folklore, mythology and fable capered and shouted. Harlequin retreated.

  “Better the myth of happiness,” Harlequin murmured, “than the myth of despair.”

  Then Harlequin had slipped away, to climb nimbly up a trellis at the side of the palace, swinging onto a balcony and through a window already open. Snow blew into the darkened room as Harlequin closed the window and drew from a sash wound twice about the waist a traditional wand, crossing rapidly to the white bed in which lay a golden-haired girl dressed in a daffodil-yellow ballet costume—Columbine, already masked, but pale, breathing sluggishly, fast asleep. Harlequin seemed sad, looking down on the girl for long moments, cocking an ear as the music rose from below, hands on hips, indecisive. Then Harlequin skipped a few steps, almost involuntarily running to the door to look out—a wide landing, a marble balcony, the ball below—back again to the bed, taking
one of Columbine’s cold hands, kissing it as a single tear crept from beneath Harlequin’s domino and fell upon the flesh. And where the tear had fallen it appeared that the skin grew warmer and that colour spread along the bare arm to the soft shoulders, the neck, the wonderful features of Columbine.

  Then Harlequin kissed Columbine upon her gentle lips, stood up and placed the tip of the wand upon her breast and Columbine opened her eyes. They were blue. They were bright. They were kind.

  “Merry Christmas, my own, dear Columbine.”

  “Merry Christmas.”

  There came a noise from the marble landing beyond the door. Two guests—Britannia and the mock Harlequin—went by. Harlequin moved to close the door, hearing a little of their conversation and smiling at its familiarity.

  “He’ll always fall on his feet, it seems—but I think he knows he hasn’t really earned the position.” Britannia spoke sharply, trying to adjust an uncomfortable sword and shield carried in one hand so that she might with the other clutch her punch. The shield was decorated with a Union Jack and the motto: Honi Soit Qui Mal Y Pense. She supported an elaborately plumed helmet of engraved silver and red horsehair, a scarlet-and-gold coat, with epaulettes, and her skirts were made up from the old arms of Britain: lions and harps for the most part.

  “He thinks he has,” said quasi-Harlequin peering over the balcony and almost losing his triangular hat, “that’s the worst of it. He’s all cocky again, as usual—never seems to realise how much other people protect him.”

  “You can’t say you’ve actually protected him, Frank.” Britannia was amused. “I, on the other hand, did my level best to look after him…”

  “I’ve offered him dozens of really good opportunities in the past, Miss Brunner.”

  “I suppose that’s where we both went wrong. All the opportunities were in the past…”

  Singing rose from the hall below:

  Peace on Earth! How sweet the message!

  May its meaning bless each heart,

  And today may all dissension

  From the souls of men depart.

  Britannia accepted the false Harlequin’s arm. “I suppose we’d better join them.” They began to descend the wide staircase.

  “Merry Christmas!” cried Major Nye in the armour of St George (he had always felt a strong sentimental enthusiasm for Where the Rainbow Ends). “Merry Christmas, Miss Brunner! Merry Christmas, Frank.” He waved an arm which clashed faintly. “Food at the buffet. Anything you like. Drinks at the bar. Hot punch. Name your grog!” His pale eyes twinkled. He clanked back into the milling crowd.

  “I suppose all this devolution has its virtues, after all,” said Miss Brunner. She dropped her sword. Frank picked it up for her. “I, of course, was a firm believer in centralisation. However, your brother ruined that. We were partners at one time, but there was a division.”

  “I remember,” said Frank, “I got shot!”

  “Did you? Poor boy. Now I’m reconciled. I’m a schoolteacher these days, did you know? For the Maharajah of Guildford’s children actually. Seriously, I’m beginning to think that it was a good idea to slow the pace, absorb things better. There isn’t much of the century left. Of course, we still have the moral superiority, don’t we?”

  Frank turned his masked face so that he could see the buffet. He licked his lips.

  “It’s a bit medieval, I suppose,” continued Miss Brunner nodding agreeably to Bishop Beesley as he went by with Mrs Cornelius in tow. Bishop Beesley had come as Widow Twankey, Mrs C. as Mother Bunch, “but none the worse for that, by and large.”

  “Yeah,” said Frank with a certain relish, “they’re thinking of re-introducing the Black Death next year.”

  “This isn’t really the season for cynicism, Frank, dear.” She drew him towards the tables. “Now, what shall we have?”

  Frank picked up a plate. “What about some devilled bones?”

  “Spare ribs, aren’t they? I suppose it’s appropriate.” She began to gnaw.

  Mr Koutrouboussis arrived at the buffet panting and exhausted. “Phew! You need a lot of energy for this!” He had come as Aladdin’s wicked uncle, Abanazar, with a dark, pointed beard fixed to his chin and heavy robes of green satin sewn with gold astrological symbols, a monstrous turban on his head. He studied the fowls, the cold meats, the blancmanges, the jellies, the flans. “It all looks so delicious.” He handed a plate to Prinz Lobkowitz who wore an Elizabethan Oberon costume and whose mask glittered with real gems. “We’ve met before, I think. Merry Christmas to you.”

  “And to you, sir. Our host seems a trifle under the weather.” Prinz Lobkowitz chose some olives.

  “Perhaps hosts never can enjoy themselves as much as their guests. There must be so many anxieties. Were you at the last party?”

  “During the Peace Talks? An absolute disaster.”

  “Doomed to failure, one could argue. A worthy attempt.”

  “To maintain the old order. Isn’t that what most peace talks are about?” Prinz Lobkowitz smiled. “It’s a natural enough instinct, surely.”

  “Ah, you would know better than I about such things.” Abanazar rubbed his hands and picked up a dish of plums.

  “It is true,” said Oberon, “that I have been a politician all my life, and an idealist for most of my career, if the search for perfect compromise can be dignified by the description of ‘ideal’.”

  “It is better than anything I ever possessed,” Koutrouboussis told him sadly, spooning at a plum or two, “save for a passion, once, for a young girl. But she evaded me, though for some time she was mine. Do you understand women, Prinz Lobkowitz?”

  “Oh, women, women, there are far too many different ones. You speak of the romantic kind?”

  “I am not sure. Romance remains a mystery. I enjoy power, however. Women are said to admire men who enjoy power.”

  “They use them often enough, that is true, to further their own romantic dreams. The more a man loves power for its own sake, the less he interferes with their fantasies, while at the same time he is able to indulge them. Such relationships were once quite common, when I was younger. They seem to work excellently. And yet you have never experienced one, with all your ships and oil?”

  “Never. I suppose I was too direct. She obeyed me, but only up to a point. She disappointed me. She would not commit herself as much as I had hoped.”

  “There you have it. She saw you as committed to your power and therefore thought she would be free, that she need not give too much of herself to you. It was you, Mr Koutrouboussis, who disappointed this young woman.”

  The Greek tugged absent-mindedly at his false beard. Parts of it came away in his fingers. A peculiar knowing light burned and faded in his dark eyes. He fumbled in his robes and withdrew a cigarette case, offering it to Lobkowitz, who declined. “I wanted her very much.” He said again: “She evaded me.”

  “My friend,” said Prinz Lobkowitz sympathetically, and chewed a pickled walnut.

  A large crowd was now approaching the table. Prinz Lobkowitz and Mr Koutrouboussis wandered away.

  Sebastian Auchinek arrived with Mitzi Beesley. Sebastian Auchinek was not quite right as the Demon King, though the costume itself was splendid, with a long pointed tail and real horns. He held his pitchfork gingerly, anxious not to hurt any of his fellow guests. Mitzi Beesley was a depraved Peter Pan. “The English have always needed queens,” he was saying. “They are useless without them. Queens created the Empire, after all.”

  “Half the greatest explorers were—” began Mitzi.

  “I’m not sure that’s quite what I meant.”

  Mitzi giggled. “But Herr Cornelius isn’t a queen. He’s a king. Or is he a king and a queen?”

  “His trouble is that he’s all things to all men—and women too. Perhaps he doesn’t know himself. It’s probably the secret of his success.”

  “He doesn’t seem too pleased with that success.” She craned to catch a glimpse of a darting white costume.

 
“I agree he seems ill.”

  “Hello, Father,” said Mitzi. “You make a lovely widow.”

  “Thank you, child.” Bishop Beesley was a picture of dignity in his flounces and ribbons, his huge hat, his rouge. He had already been twice mistaken for Mrs Cornelius. He continued his conversation with Colonel Pyat, a Saracen King in golden armour. “My motives were questioned probably because I was always a trifle unorthodox. I hoped to show people the way—back to decent standards. I did my best to be up to date at all times. I did not reject technology, nor did I turn my back on drugs.”