by Fiona Mozley
By the time Donald met Agatha’s mother, Anastasia, he was already old. Donsky, darling, it’s a boy. I know it’s a boy. The young and beautiful Anastasia told him this again and again. Donald wanted desperately to believe her, and in the last months of his life, which he spent with his Russian wife, he changed his will, so the estate would be left to his youngest child, as yet unborn. Donald Howard died shortly afterwards. When the baby arrived, she was a girl.
Agatha has scheduled a day of meetings. She is looking forward to none of them. She enjoys the parts of the business that involve designing and building, working with architects and engineers, and taking a derelict, useless wreck and turning it into something beautiful and productive, but lately, so many of her plans have been stymied by the situation at the brothel, and the ongoing legal disputes with her sisters. Her first meeting is with a police officer, who she hopes can deal with the former issue, and the second meeting is with her lawyer, who has news regarding the latter.
She spots another dog and its owner coming in their direction. The dog is very small, and as it gets closer she makes out the face and features of a Yorkshire terrier, a pink ribbon tied into a bow between its ears. The dog’s owner is a man of about 5 foot 5 with strong arms, a round belly and a shaved head. His face is round and reddish.
Fedor is still off lead but close by. He hasn’t noticed the other dog.
Agatha and Roster continue to walk and so does the man with his Yorkshire terrier. They are now perhaps ten meters apart. The approaching man begins to smile at them. He looks as though he is going to speak. Neither Agatha nor Roster returns his smile and his face begins to fall.
Fedor catches the scent. He stands to attention. His ears are pricked; his eyes are wide; his lips are closed but ready, quivering. The man has not noticed the sighthound’s stance; neither has Roster. Agatha has noticed Fedor’s posture but thinks little of it.
The Yorkshire terrier lets out a short, high-pitched bark. Triggered by the frequency, the borzoi lurches forwards. His hind legs are released like the arm of a catapult. He is immediately upon the small creature.
Nobody understands what has happened. All three of the humans look, Agatha frowning slightly, Roster a couple of steps behind. The man who owns the Yorkshire terrier continues to hold the end of the lead, the other end of which is attached to the small dog, which is in the mouth of the large dog.
Even the little terrier hasn’t realized what is happening. She hangs limply, and makes no sound.
Then the Yorkshire terrier’s owner panics, and he begins to shout. He has a thick accent from a part of the country Agatha hasn’t visited, and she can’t make out what he is saying. She has never been shouted at by a complete stranger before. She has very little interaction with what she would call “members of the public,” and she has still less experience of this manner of incident. She recoils a little but is otherwise immobile.
The large dog is still holding the smaller dog in its jaws. The smaller dog is now quivering and making a high-pitched whimpering noise. Roster is trying to explain to the shouting man that this is only making matters worse; that the borzoi is simply responding to his very sensitive prey drive; that the borzoi believes the Yorkshire terrier to be a rabbit or some other traditional prey animal.
It takes nearly ten minutes for Fedor to be persuaded to drop the other dog. By this point, the man is in tears.
Happy Go Lucky
Lorenzo begins the day with an audition for a role in a new television series. He’s doing it for Glenda, he tells himself, but also he could do with the money. The production company is American though filming will be done in the north of England with a largely British cast. This is to give the program an “Old World” feel. Though set in a fantasy land, it’s supposed to be a kind of medieval fantasy, and it’s felt British accents will be more authentic.
Lorenzo’s agent put him forward for one role but the production company came back and offered him an audition for another. Because the show is to have a big budget, there’s a lot of secrecy surrounding it, and the details of the part he’s auditioning for aren’t clear. He was told that he’d find out more when he got to the studio.
Lorenzo enters the large, high-ceilinged foyer through rotating glass doors. He’s ushered to the waiting area by a young woman. She takes his photograph on a small digital camera clipped to the back of her computer for this purpose, and soon afterwards hands him a day pass with a fresh image of his face on it. He’s joined in the waiting area by two other men of a similar age. Following the laws of courtesy, the three men sit as far apart from each other as is possible and, after a cursory smile and nod, they each do everything they can to avoid further interaction.
Lorenzo picks up a left-leaning periodical from the coffee table. Someone has written an article about being “Second Generation Working Class.” Lorenzo didn’t realize that was a thing.
Sure, I was brought up in a nice house and went to school in a decent catchment area, but my parents were both raised on a bootstrap and didn’t eat pasta until they were at university.
Lorenzo reads another line.
When chatting to friends about opera or art, I just don’t have the same shorthand, the same inherited cultural cache.
And then,
I’ve never been skiing.
Lorenzo throws the periodical back onto the table. He tries to steady his thoughts. He recites in his head some lines from the piece he prepared. They might not even ask him to perform it. The thought makes him feel both better and worse.
He is summoned to the audition room last. The other two contenders were either shown out of the building through a different exit after their auditions or else they’ve been murdered and chopped up and flushed down a toilet, because Lorenzo doesn’t see them again. He’s led upstairs into a room with a wooden floor and tall windows along one side. There are mirrors along the wall facing the windows. The room has the look of a dance studio.
He is greeted by a lanky man with thinning gray hair, wearing a black, merino-wool jumper.
“Lorenzo?” The man holds out a hand.
“Hi. Yes,” says Lorenzo. He meets the man’s hand and shakes it. The man doesn’t follow with his own name. He must have forgotten that particular rule of social engagement.
“Great, let’s get going,” says the man. He turns away and goes to sit down behind a table, where a woman and another man are already sitting.
Lorenzo remains standing in the middle of the room. He bounces on his toes a couple of times and wonders if he should have done some of his old drama-school warm-ups. Probably. It’s too late now.
“What do you know about the role?” the lanky man asks.
“Very little,” Lorenzo replies. “I knew a little bit about the role I was put forward for, but I know almost nothing about this one.”
“Sure, yeah, that’s fine. We didn’t expect you to know anything. It’s all been hush hush.”
The man picks up a sheet of paper and leans across the table to hand it to Lorenzo. Lorenzo walks forward to take it.
“Take a seat,” says the woman.
“Oh yeah, take a seat,” says the man. “Sorry. Where are my manners?”
Lorenzo sits down, holding the sheet of paper.
“So yeah. Huge, huge, sweeping fantasy drama,” says the man. “Loads of episodes.”
“We hope,” interjects the woman.
“We hope,” says the man. “We hope loads of episodes, and filming mainly here in the UK.”
“In the north,” says the woman.
“Yeah, in the north.” The man puts on a bad Yorkshire accent: “Up North! There’s a great little studio there and lots of beautiful, gorgeous rugged landscape, which is just what we need. Hills and cliffs and waterfalls, and lots of moody black clouds. That sort of vibe. And, hopefully, other locations around the world. Nice, exotic places. You okay with that?”
“Sure,” says Lorenzo. “Sounds fantastic.”
He’s beginning to feel more
optimistic about his foray into television work. They’re speaking to him as if trying to sell the part to him.
The man continues: “The role itself is really fun. You know, it’s the kind of role the right actor could really make a lot of. There’s a lot of creativity; a lot of light and shade.”
“Great writing as well,” says the woman.
“Yes,” agrees the lanky man. “Great writing. We’ve got some real talent on board.”
“Well, that’s always a good sign,” says Lorenzo. He doesn’t want to appear to have nothing interesting to say. “Good writing’s often the most important thing, isn’t it? Good writing can improve an average performance, but a good performance can’t mask average writing.”
“Right, yeah,” says the man. “I’d never thought of it in that way.”
“Actually I disagree totally with that statement,” says the woman. “In fact, I couldn’t disagree more. I think that is completely wrong.”
“Um,” says Lorenzo, weakly. It was such a strong response, Lorenzo wonders for a moment if she’s testing him. It had been an idle comment. He isn’t sure whether or not even he agrees with what he just said.
The woman doesn’t seem to require a reply, thankfully, but also she doesn’t seem to be joking. The lanky man continues as if he hasn’t heard what the woman said. The third panelist—the other man—has spent the whole conversation staring at a piece of paper on the table.
“So you’d be a pimp,” says the lanky man, bringing the conversation back to the casting.
“Right,” says Lorenzo.
“But a really fun pimp,” says the lanky man. “You know, a really exotic one. The feel we want to go for is of a kind of happy-go-lucky, cheeky chappy, who sells things here and there and who’s done this and that with his life and been around the block a bit, but who’s now found himself at the head of a really luxurious high-end brothel in the kind of economic and political center of this world. How does that sound?”
“Well, yeah, fine. I guess I’d have to see the script to get into the role, but in theory that sounds fine.”
“We’ve seen a reel of some of the comedy you’ve done. But also the Shakespeare stuff. You can do that thing where you’re happy and jolly and likeable one minute and then really lethal and menacing the next. Do you know what I mean?”
“Um, yeah. I guess I can do both.”
“And you’ve got the look.” The lanky man turns to his colleagues. “He’s got the look, hasn’t he?”
The woman nods. The third man looks up from the piece of paper on the table and considers, then also nods.
Lorenzo wonders what “the look” means in this context.
The three panelists mutter under their breath, behind their hands. The lanky man says: “Okay, fantastic. We’d love to see you in a few situations. I think we’ve got a measure of you as an individual performer from what we’ve seen of your reel, but we’d like to test you out with another performer.”
“Okay,” says Lorenzo. “That sounds good.”
“Fantastic,” says the man. He gets up. Lorenzo becomes aware of how tall the man is. Some thin people look taller than they are because of their proportions. This man isn’t one of those: he’s both thin and genuinely tall. He walks to the far end of the room to an open door. “Kim,” he calls. “Kim?”
There’s a scuffle within, and a person who is presumably called Kim comes to the entrance then into the room.
“This is Kim,” says the man.
“Hi, Kim,” says Lorenzo. “I’m Lorenzo.”
“Hi, Lorenzo,” says Kim. She holds out her hand and Lorenzo shakes it in the way that’s just one person brushing their fingers against another person’s palm.
Kim is a standard actress, as defined by any description of an actress provided by a big studio casting call. She’s 5'3" with long, fair hair. She is pretty, maybe beautiful, but not scene-stealingly so. She would upstage nobody. She could be as old as thirty or as young as eighteen.
“Great,” says the man as he comes out from around his desk once again with some papers in his hand. “So Lorenzo, we’d like you to run through this scene with Kim. Is that okay? She’s been through it already with a couple of the guys we’ve auditioned already for the part. I mean, I don’t mind telling you that we’re auditioning other people.” He laughs. Lorenzo laughs too. The man hands the papers to Lorenzo and Kim. “I’ll give you a couple of minutes to familiarize yourself with the material. Then we’ll give it a go. Is that okay?”
“Fine,” says Lorenzo. He looks down at the script.
Omatio: Spread your legs, you fucking whore!
Whore 1: Please, sir, please. Not again.
Omatio: You think this is a game? You think this is a fucking game? You think I brought you all the way over here so you could keep me company? So you could tell me stories about your fucking home country?
Whore 1: Please, sir. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.
Omatio: Because let me tell you, whore. I don’t want to hear them. I don’t give a shit about that fucking shithole. Do you hear me? Now we’ve got paying customers out there right now, and every minute you’re sitting in here with your legs closed is a golden floren I’ve lost.
[Kvist, a patron, enters wearing fine clothes]
Omatio: Good sir! But a moment! Has one of my men poured you a glass of our finest wine? We have every good vintage. We shall bring you your selection in just a moment.
Kvist: I heard a commotion.
Omatio: It was nothing. It was nothing, sir.
Kvist: Is that girl crying?
Omatio: Tears of laughter, only! She was just now entertaining me with tales of her people. You know the Sand Dwellers of Amon K’ Tur? She is one of those. Did you know that they cover their bodies in a mixture of sand and piss to protect themselves from the sun? And one time a traveler came through and was so aroused by the aroma he bottled it and sold it for luxury perfume at the market in Temorry for fifty golden florens a case!
[Kvist laughs]
[Omatio laughs]
[Whore 1 continues to weep]
The scene continues in this vein for several pages. Lorenzo reads it over a couple of times then performs it with Kim as Whore 1 and the lanky man as Kvist. At the end of the piece he’s required to slap Kim across the face. Lorenzo gained extensive fight training at drama school so is able to do this without causing any physical harm. After the audition, he shakes everyone’s hand and leaves the building feeling ill. He did a good job. He hates himself for having done a good job.
A Full English
Following the unpleasant incident with the Yorkshire terrier, Roster and Agatha loop back on themselves and head towards the car. The senior police officer Agatha has arranged to meet is Michael Warbeck. She’s heard he’s one of the brightest stars in the service. His career in the force commenced with a graduate scheme for talented young people and he’s been promoted quickly and frequently. It is rumored that Michael Warbeck has political ambitions, and that he will shortly leave the police force and announce his candidacy for Mayor of London. It is all very secret, however. Because of his position, he is entirely debarred from any political activity, and must make any preparations covertly until he has quit his job.
They meet at a cafe near Agatha’s house. Roster parks the car outside and waits. The cafe has white linen tablecloths and silver coffee pots. There are several types of smoked salmon and caviar on the menu, as well as pastries and cooked breakfasts. Michael Warbeck arrives late and orders a cappuccino and a Full English.
“Do you mind?” he asks as he orders.
“Not at all,” Agatha replies.
There are a few minutes of small talk then Agatha guides the conversation to a topic that ensures he’s aware of the full extent of her wealth and reach. Next, they speak guardedly about the current Mayor of London, then briefly about the coffee in their cups and their respective breakfasts, then Agatha finds an opportunity to bring up the subject about which she’s most keen
to speak.
“The thing that I think is really preventing this city progressing as quickly as it could, is that there is still so much inequality.”
Michael nods. His cheeks are stuffed with baked beans.
“And particularly when it comes to housing,” she continues, “as recent events have made apparent.”
Michael nods again, still with a mouthful of fry-up, but this time his expression is appropriately graver, in response to the grisly event to which she’s alluding.
“It’s atrocious, really,” she says. She pauses, allowing him to chew and swallow his food. She doesn’t want to hector. The ideas she’s trying to elicit will be much more effective if he thinks they are his own.
“The situation is shocking. We see it on the ground all the time. We in the police force, I mean.”
“I’m sure.”
“You know, there’s less integration between communities now than when I joined up. We used to talk about ghettoization as if it were a totally American phenomenon, but we’re seeing it here now as well.”
“That’s terrible.”
“It is.”
Michael returns to his breakfast. Agatha wants to make sure the conversation remains on this topic rather than deviating, so while he cuts up his sausage, she says: “Even I’ve noticed it. I am, of course, a person of great privilege, but first and foremost I’m a Londoner. That’s how I see myself. And I have certainly noticed that there is huge variation between neighborhoods. It can’t be healthy.”
“Well, exactly.”
He’s being frustratingly monosyllabic, so Agatha continues on her own. Perhaps she should have suggested a meeting place that didn’t involve food. “You know, it’s something I’ve actually been thinking about more and more. And about what I as a developer can do about it. Some of the properties that my father owned are so run down, and since I’ve taken control of the business I’ve been doing what I can to renovate them. But it can be difficult, you know.”