'We'll leave 'im wiv you, ven,' said Harry Stone sadly. 'And don't let 'im get aht, whatever you do. It's dangerous for 'im, see. 'E's got to be kept 'ole till tomorrow night, vat 'ead 'as especially.'
'What is this business tomorrow night?' asked Edwin. 'You haven't made it at all clear.'
'Told you,' snarled Harry Stone. 'Competition for bald 'eads, to see which is ve 'andsomest. Vere's a sort of talent-spottin' fing in which Leo 'ere takes part, an ven vey finish up wiv vis bald-'ead lark, which is organised by vem as is responsible for a new film wiv one of vese bald-'eaded yobs playin' ve lead in it. It's on ve telly, too, vis is.'
'And what's the first prize?' asked Edwin.
'A ton,' screamed Harry Stone. ' 'Undred nicker an' a film-test. Fink of what vat means to you, only a poor bleedin' perfesser. You seen vese stars? Rollin' in manny and lollin' round in Caddies and over big cars, and ve richards of all ages screamin' to get at vem. You should be in veir position,' he said Jewishly, with a brisk thump at Edwin. 'And you will be,' he added, 'if you don't let no 'arm come to vat 'ead between now and tomorrow night.'
'So I don't get any money?' said Edwin. 'I just get the film-test, is that it?'
The twins became loud and Oriental, speaking at once, thrusting their arms about, ready, if there had been ornaments, to knock ornaments on to the floor. What was money, compared to a chance to become internationally known as a great screen myth? they argued. The hundred nicker was nothing, they had confidently assumed that a man of his intellectual calibre would scorn a mere trivial bundle of greasy notes, for themselves as lowly Yids without a solitary talent between them it was very different, in any case whose idea had this been, anyway? They punched and thumped Edwin to convince him what great favour they were really doing him, the time, the trouble, the worry, and he wasn't helping much, was he, getting himself picked up by kettle-mobsters and being chased half over London by the police. No sense of responsibility, that was his trouble.
'But,' said Edwin, 'if the prize is so desirable, I don't see how I can possibly stand a chance. There must be millions of people prepared to be baldheaded for a hundred nicker and a screen test. I just won't get a look-in.'
That was a laugh, that was. Did he think in all sober honesty that these things could not be arranged? Was he so naive as to imagine that contests of this kind could not be rigged? Let him then know now that the promoter of the competition should once by rights have done time and that they, the Stone twins, knew it, and that there were certain things connected with certain illegitimate imports in the past - no, not kettles, nothing like kettles, don't be silly - which could be made public still to the immeasurable harm of some as should be nameless. And the judges? There, again, was something to excite risibility. For contracts on a certain television network certain richards endowed with a certain generic personableness but little talent else would do much. Let him not make them laugh, then. But Edwin was not really convinced.
When the twins, still talking loudly, had left, and their dog too, juggling with a cabbage-stump, Edwin was able to examine the small flat which was now his sanctuary. It was furnished mainly with vegetables from the market. There were two or three marrows recumbent in an armchair in the living-room, potatoes in the hearth, broccoli and kale and cauliflowers and cabbages arranged neatly on the few flat surfaces, a powerful smell of bruised fruit in the bedroom. Carmen was feeding a great steaming pan with stick after stick of celery to make, as she explained, a strong specific against rheumatism. Edwin noted, with interest and hope, that his kinked olfaction machine seemed to be coming right, for an odour of rum led him to a tin bath of decaying bananas.
And it was of milk and Scotch that Les smelt when he came in. Carmen said: 'I not ask 'im 'ere, zis one. I not fack abaht. Oh blimey, zey bring 'im 'ere, zem two.'
'I know all about it, lass,' said Les. 'And I'm not worried about him in that way, knowing all about it from his wife.' He looked coldly at Edwin. 'Made a nice mess of things last night, didn't you? Got yourself into a nice jam, eh? That'll teach you, won't it?' Edwin hung his head. 'Never mind,' said Les, more kindly. 'The world's a very wicked place.' He had brought with him a gunnysack which he emptied on to the floor - more fruit and vegetables. Potatoes rolled under the table and there was a frou-frou of green leaves, rustling cabbages and a squeak of sprouts. But when the three of them sat down to an early luncheon the platter was for strict carnivores: wormy minced meat that Carmen had brought from her hamburger bar. 'Don't you eat many vegetables, then?' asked Edwin. 'Not really,' said Les. 'See too many of them, really. Surrounded by them most of the time.'
After the meal Les retired to sleep and Carmen prepared to go to work, an unbecoming toque on her blackbird hair and a shopping-bag in her hand. This was not for shopping but for hamburger mince. Edwin said casually: 'I think I'll come out with you, just for the walk. Fresh air, you know.'
'Oh blimey,' cried Carmen in a transport of distress. 'You 'ear? Les, you 'ear? 'E say 'e go out.' Les thumped into the living-room in his socks. He looked sadly at Edwin. He said:
'Now, I shouldn't have to explain things to you, you supposing yourself to be more intelligent than me. But don't you think we've had enough trouble, one way and another? Don't you think it would be more sensible to stay here, not biting the hand that feeds you, and keep out of harm's way? I'm not proposing to lock you in, because I don't really hold with keeping anybody behind bars, but I'm asking you for everybody's sake to stay put in here. There's plenty of things you can do to pass the time. You can read, you can peel potatoes, you can feed celery into that pot there for the rheumatism. You needn't be dull. But don't start endangering your own life and putting us who are supposed to be your friends into the ess aitch one tea as well.'
It was a cogent speech, and Edwin felt, for a time, ashamed. Carmen left and Les snored, and Edwin peeled an iron pot full of potatoes. At dusk Les awoke, smacking his lips dryly, and came into the kitchen to find Edwin at work. 'Good,' said Les. 'Good. Best King Edwards those are, as fine a spud as you'll find anywhere. Not that I eat many myself. Fattening.' Yawning, head-scratching, he put on his shoes, saying: 'War awe warthog Warsaw. Yaw,' he added. 'I beg your pardon,' he said. 'I'm just wondering what's the best thing to do this evening. With you, that is. We've got this opera on again tonight, but it doesn't look as though you'll be safer there than anywhere else. On the other hand, you can't go on peeling potatoes all evening in here. Drive anybody mad, I can see that.'
'I'll be all right,' said Edwin, 'just staying here.' His secret intention was to go out looking for Sheila. He felt that his counterfeit notes would perhaps pass in the dark and he would have no difficulty thus in buying transport from place to place, as well as refreshment on the way. Really, things had improved enormously. He was decently dressed and haired and had money. Counterfeit hair and money to match. He was a lot better off than he had been trudging back from mean grasping Chasper. About Chasper's hat he didn't care any longer. He was at last finding his level.
'Well,' said Les, 'that's all right, then. See, there are plenty of things to read over there.' He pointed to a wretched tattered pile of Pans and Penguins. 'And there are one or two classics, too, but I keep those in a cupboard. Things like J. B. Priestley and Nevil Shute and No Orchids. Those are not just for anybody to get hold of, when all's said and done. But you're a reading man, like me and old Charlie.' He happily got dressed, singing the Habanera from Carmen:
'I'm a bastard, and you're a whore.
If you were mine I'd have you on the floor.'
He went out singing, and Edwin was left to the vegetables and the classics. It was early enough still, so he boiled himself some potatoes, not forgetting the salt, and ate these, following them with a rummy mush of bananas which he spooned in for their known sustaining power. While he was combing his wig he heard a knock at the door. Bob, would it be? He picked up the bread knife, waited till the knock was repeated more urgently, and then thought: 'It must be Sheila.' He took his bread knife to the door
, opened and brandished, and found Renate on the step.
'Na,' she said, shaking her head. 'I will not intread. Here can I it say.' She swayed, full of doppel gins.
'Yes? What? What is it?'
'Ungeduld,' said Renate. 'Impatience. Now I tell you. With a young painter with a beard your missis has seen been. You give me money. I tell you where.' She held out a confident palm.
'How do I know?' said Edwin. 'How do I know you know?'
'I know,' nodded Renate. 'My darling, I know. Last night and the night before were they in this place seen.'
'Here,' said Edwin, giving her five pounds. 'Where?'
Renate kissed the note and folded it quarto, octavo. She leaned forward ginnily and whispered: 'Soho. Soho. For a place a very silly name.'
'But where in Soho?' asked Edwin. 'Damn it, Soho's a big district.'
'I have the name forgotten,' said Renate. 'Oh, yes. It is for painters. A club.' She raised her arms from her sides, becoming cruciform. 'Big pictures on the walls. But not very good. Nicht so schlecht,' she spat softly. 'Nicht so gut.'
'Greek Street? Frith Street? Where?'
'Soho,' said Renate, nodding herself off to buy more gin. 'You go there, my darling, you poor kid.' Edwin slammed the door and dashed back to finish his toilet. It was a start, anyway, somewhere to start. He admired himself in the mirror, prototypical poet, and wondered whether perhaps he would not be better with a beard. The man of the future, infinitely plastic. Also, perhaps, Bob-detection-proof. But it was the eyes, wasn't it? He rummaged in the living-room and found in a drawer - among bus tickets, hairpins, buttons, odd comb-teeth, bottle-openers, fuse wire, a ripening tomato or two, cornflake gifts, hanks of hair in rows wrenched roughly, dirty pictures, an army pay-book, an old denture, cachous, a scented devotional BVM missal-marker, a few unwrapped Mintoes, P. and O. cocktail tridents, four or five playing cards, dominoes, a die and a shaker - a dusty cheap pair of sun-glasses. These were Carmen's presumably, or her predecessor's, being of narrow fit. They sat, however, comfortably enough on his own nose and ears. Thus armed, his kinkiness hidden, he was ready for any adventure.
After much searching, sidestreet-wandering, passing of sinister fish-and-chip-shops, Edwin found himself on a fine wide London thoroughfare, the very one he had haunted the foredawn of the day before. He glanced inside several tobacconist's shops and at last saw what he wanted: ill service from a gawky chewing girl who had more time for her waiting friend - an also chewing, plastic-raincoated, puddingy little bitch - than for her customers.
'Twenty Senior, please,' said Edwin, proffering a note.
'Haven't you got nothing less?' crossly chewed the girl.
Edwin removed his sun-glasses to show sincere, though kinky, eyes, saying: 'Sorry.' And he suffered the girl to tell out his change with petulance. 'You'll have to have nearly all silver,' she said. This was his punishment. Edwin was profuse in his thanks. Out in the street, enjoying a free smoke, he hailed (Icelandic heill: health; hence a greeting; hence a call) a taxi. Real money for this, no free ride. But it really would be free, wouldn't it? How does one know, where does one start, what are really meum and tuum? 'The Soho Square end of Greek Street,' he told the driver. That seemed a reasonable sort of starting-point. Edwin, so much himself a sham, felt a sort of kinship with the sham pleasures of Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street as they travelled painfully towards Soho. When Crosse and Blackwell glowed on their left the driver said: 'This do, guv?' The square was a mess of cars, parked and crawling. Edwin paid him and but meagrely tipped him, then he walked into Greek Street. A club with paintings on the wall. How did one get into a club if one happened to be oneself not a member? One waited outside perhaps and asked a member to sign one in. Rather like the days when he would wait outside a cinema and ask any entering adult to be the accompanying adult without whom no child under sixteen could be admitted when it was that sort of film. The Dangers of Ignorance. The Miracle of Birth. The Man Whose Nose Dropped Off.
Edwin walked a long way without finding a club for painters. There were restaurants offering everything in the world but roast beef and Yorkshire. There were coffee-bars with gimmicks: Heaven above, Hell below, and the W.C. called Purgatory; Necrophiles' Nest; The Vampire, with bloody lighting to encarnadine the coffee. There were pubs in plenty. Growing thirsty at last, Edwin entered one of these, decided he did not like the landlord, and tendered five pounds for his double Scotch. 'What's this, what's this?' said the landlord, holding the note to the light. 'They've done you, that's what they've done, a real fake this is.' 'The swine,' said Edwin, offering good silver. 'You can't trust anybody, can you?' The landlord went to telephone, so Edwin gulped his whisky and left.
At length it seemed that he had found what he was looking for. THE CHINESE WHITE. About right for Han Su-yin, he thought nastily. A negro with a small beard was just about to enter, so Edwin said politely: 'Excuse me, sir. There's somebody I'm looking for. It's a matter of buying a picture, probably. If you would be so good as to--'
'If you want to buy a picture,' said the negro, 'I've got pictures. Affluent patron of the arts, eh?' He both sneered and smiled - the artist's age-old dichotomy showing through. 'You come in,' he said. 'I've got paintings hanging up inside.' He opened the door, disclosing a shirt-sleeved corpse of a man presiding over a visitors' book. Edwin wrote down his name and was signed in. The negro, whose name seemed to be F. Willoughby, thrust aside a curtain. Edwin took off his dark glasses and saw what he had expected to see: shabby hirsute men and girls in coloured stockings. The room was long, narrow, noisy and smoky. There was a bar at the end, and the walls were covered with canvases. Of Nigel and Sheila there was no sign. Perhaps they would come in later. Plenty of time, after all.
'I don't suppose I, as a non-member, am allowed to buy drinks,' said Edwin. 'So perhaps I could give you this money and you could do it for me.' He tried to fold a five-pound note into F. Willoughby's large painter's paw. But F. Willoughby said:
'Anybody can buy a drink in here once they get in here. I'll have a large Pernod.'
'And so you shall,' said Edwin, seeing with joy that the barman was busy and that he didn't like the look of him anyway. He squinted a bit, just like the pseudo-Britannia he was going to get. But when Edwin had just about caught his eye, there was a general shushing and a temporary cessation of trade. Edwin looked round from the bar to see that a lank young man with glasses, turtle-neck sweater and hair geometrically straight, was sitting on a stool in the middle of the floor, tuning unhandily a Spanish guitar. After one or two sour and simple chords he began to recite, chordally emphasising his cadences in the supposed manner of the Psalmist:
'For them that looked for the way out and found it:
This.
There were holes that grew as doors with looking for them,
And for those that walked through with their heads high as kites,
This.
Where were the holes?
In man, in woman, in bottles, in the tattered book picked up from the mud on the rainy day by the railway junction.
But the whole of wholes, the holy of holies, where was, where is
This?'
There was a great deal more, so old-fashioned as to have become up-to-date, and Edwin thirsted, but most listened with respect. 'That,' explained F. Willoughby in a whisper, 'is This. Poetry,' he added. 'But those are mine, those over there.' He pointed, and, seeing him point, someone went shush. Edwin saw a series of small canvases, and each one was of a circle. Some were bigger than others, and the plain painted backgrounds varied in violent poster-colour, but every one of F. Willoughby's pictures was a portrait of a circle. 'They're only circles,' whispered Edwin. 'Circles, that's all they are.'
'Shhhhh.'
'Only?' said F. Willoughby. 'You say only? You ever try to draw a circle with your bare hands?'
'Shhhhhh. Shhhhhhh.'
'Through the ultimate hole is reached
This:'
What mouselike becomes lionlike when the
hole is seen not just as a door in but a door out,
A door out of
This:
Cage. Cage.' (And CAGE went the guitar-chord.)
'But surely,' whispered Edwin, 'all painting is done with the bare hands, isn't it?'
'See here,' said the psalmist. 'I'm very nearly finished. Do you mind?'
'Best line of the lot,' said Edwin.
'Shhhhhhh.' The girls looked prettier, pouting shhhhhh. The psalmist ended, postluded:
'The holy, the whole, when seen through the hole
Not seen wholly, but only whole holy deliverer
from
This.'
His right chording hand plucked, withdrew from the strings, and poised in a plucking posture in the air. Edwin clapped as loud as any, ordered two large Pernods and whatever the barman wanted, and received lots of change in real money. 'About this circle business,' he said.
'There was a big painter in the past,' said the negro, 'an Italian, and he could do that. Nobody else since. Only me,' he said, and sipped.
'But does that make it aesthetically more valid?' asked Edwin. 'The viewer doesn't know whether you've done it freehand or used a compass, does he?'
'Look as hard as you like,' said F. Willoughby, 'and you won't find any compass pin-prick in the middle.'
'But suppose I were to put a pin-prick there as though it had been done by a compass,' said Edwin. 'Would that make any aesthetic difference?'
'See here, brother,' said F. Willoughby in a Parisian accent, 'I just make them. I don't argue about the aesthetics, see? Ten guineas the set.'
'Done,' said Edwin, handing over fifteen pounds. 'I want four ten change.'
'For four ten,' said F. Willoughby, 'you can have that canvas over there.' It was a not unpleasing pattern - whorls in puce and lemon and jade.
'Sorry,' said Edwin, 'In any case, it's your turn to buy a drink.' F. Willoughby fought his way through to the buying of two flat light ales and brought back also Edwin's change. Edwin became aware of a quickening beat of interest in him, speculative bright eyes on this munificent patron who, if he would buy a set of circles for ten guineas, would undoubtedly buy anything. 'I'm rather fond of Nigel's work,' said Edwin. 'Is there any of it around?'
The Doctor Is Sick Page 14