GS Marlowe - I Am Your Brother

by (epub)

  “Quiet!” shouts Ritornelli, who woke up.

  Viva laughs.

  “Singing and athletic exercise. That’s what we Germans are proud of,” says Kraut. “Military exercise. Songs and arms, my grandfather back in Berlin always used to say. Shouting and shooting. If you can’t do one, do the other, but for God’s sake do something. It’s in the blood,” he adds, quite humbly. “You know, Teutonic.”

  He wants to start singing again, but realises that his beer glass is empty. He stops and shouts: “Joseph!”

  In a very old-fashioned way, he says: “You’ll have another, too.”

  Some more glasses are brought in. More smoke and laughter, and over there Shark is leaning back in his chair like Flo Ziegfeld himself, explaining to Mrs. Esmond his new idea for a musical comedy, an old hobby of his.

  “You see, Mrs. Esmond, that’s the way I look at it. A nice back-drop, moonlight and two lovers in the foreground. Now usually they have only one pair of lovers, and I said to myself: “Why not give them two, or three, or even four? This makes good burlesque. That’s first class. It’s a classic. A wow! I talked to a little Jew who writes this sort of thing. He just jumped at the idea. He gobbled it up. He said: ‘Shark,’ he says, ‘put this down on paper.’ But I say”—with a very generous gesture he leans back again—“I can’t do this sort of thing. It just isn’t my line. So I say to him—Quiet!” Shark shouts suddenly, forgetting he is now in civilian clothes, so to speak.

  But he is right. There is an awful row, as the girls sitting in a group by themselves are highly amused by Coco, who tries to recollect his trip to Moscow. He has the typical dead features of a clown, and even if he is in mufti he seems to have a chalk-white make-up on his face and eyes drawn with a black pencil. He says in his high-pitched voice—a very fifth-rate Whimsical Walker—“I know I’ve been there. But I can’t remember a thing. We played six weeks at the—hell,” he says, quite exhausted, “that’s slipped my mind, too. But I know I’ve been there, because I still have some change, oh, just small change, upstairs. It’s Russian money. We, me and my sister.”

  “What was her name?” says one of the girls. “You remember that, Coco?”

  “Cocaine,” shouts one of the girls. “That was her name, Coco.”

  “No,” says Coco, quite seriously. “It was Millie. And she had an act of her own.” And quite unmoved, he adds: “She was drowned.”

  The girls don’t want to laugh at this statement, but one bursts out and the others fall in.

  And Coco himself goes into hysterical laughter.

  But Kraut is not so successful at the moment with the star of the troup. He isn’t a man of words, but of terrific action. And everything is just a means to an end. Or a happy beginning. He says: “You haven’t seen this, Miss. This is my watch.” And on the short-fingered platform of his hand he puts the onion-like timepiece that has belonged to generations of Krauts. “Now, look closely. Closely. Now where is the watch? I’ll show you. One, two, and three——” and gallantly he navigates his hand towards Viva’s décolletée bosom. “If I may—permit me——”

  “Certainly not,” says Viva.

  And the watch falls out of Kraut’s pipe-like sleeve. “Ha, ha, ha,” he laughs. But stops his abdominal laughter by ordering another beer. Kraut’s merry pranks come to a sudden end.

  A piece of chalk, just an ordinary piece of chalk you can do all sorts of things with. Take this, for instance. A blackboard with three columns. At the head of the first one it says: Train No. On the next it says: From. And then there is a bigger space so that you can fill in any station you want, and a slender column again: Hrs. Mins. A porter now takes the piece of chalk, and fills in: 3.30, Brighton in the next, and in the third: Seven Minutes. Whereupon two ladies, one with an umbrella, the other with a dog, turn away in disappointment. The porter lights his pipe and disappears towards the door where it says: Light Refreshments.

  Seven minutes is sometimes a long time. It depends, of course, on what one calls long. For example:

  A doctor is just leaving, whispering something to a nurse, as it is late, and at eight o’clock the lights are turned out in St. Henry’s Hospital.

  It’s quite silent in this ward: only a bit of coughing now and then, from here, and from over there. But they have put a lamp at Mrs. Spencer’s bedside, though she seems asleep; but she really isn’t—she moves restlessly. The nurse is a bit nervous, and she glances at her watch and she says something to another nurse. Whispering again, so that one can’t make out what they are really talking about. But one of the nurses leaves and comes back with a screen. Just an ordinary threepiece screen. And a man appears, and he is in shirt sleeves and looks a little bit like a young butcher. And he brings another screen, and puts it down on the other side of the bed. And they don’t talk, as it is night and the patients shouldn’t be disturbed by anything.

  So those two nurses stand there again and wait. And Mrs. Spencer tries with one very thin, skeleton-like, pale hand to convey that there is something under the pillow which she is anxious to get.

  And they try to find what she wants. And it’s no rosary. It’s an ordinary string, with a Yale key hanging on it. Although her face hardly moves, she looks much more peaceful and more at ease since she holds this key between her hands, as if it were something very precious. And her hands are folded quiet and still, as though in prayer.

  The nurse whispers again, and the other one looks at the door, and the first one looks at the watch again, and the doctor is gone. There is really nothing that can possibly be done for this woman. She’ll just fade out in a few minutes and that’s all.

  The train is pulling in. The train from Brighton.

  And among the passengers the only one without luggage is Julian Spencer, who runs towards the gate, and while he is running he tries to find his return ticket. And it isn’t in his coat, and not in his waistcoat. Maybe it’s in the right pocket of his trousers: maybe it’s in the left. And he arrives at the gate, and there is no ticket.

  But the man wants to see it. And Julian simply can’t produce it. Look again, Mr. Spencer. It must be somewhere. You haven’t lost it. The ticket. This damnable little ticket. Maybe, it’s in your wallet. There are two ten-shilling notes. Maybe it’s slipped in between. But if you are nervous you won’t be able to see it, even if it is there. And the people behind you: they don’t want to wait until you find the ticket. Ah! Here it is. But two other people go first through the gate.

  He arrives on the street: there is no bus waiting. And he tries to hail a taxi, but they are all taken, as it is raining like hell. Splashing rain, and dark, too.

  And there he stands. Under a lantern. And taxis pass by. And they splash water and mud all over the place. And there’s a wind. It’s almost a gale. And no taxis. And his mother—it might be too late. Ah! Here is a taxi! But it is an old one. And it’ll take some time, as it can’t go fast: streets are slippery on a night like this.

  “Of course,” says the nurse. “Of course.”

  But Mrs. Spencer starts moving about. And she tries to lift up her head, and her head falls back again. How pathetic even such a hideous woman can look at times. Those strands of grey hair and this sharp-pointed nose, and the closed eyes, and the spectacles, as if there were still something to see, or worth while looking at.

  And she moves. Maybe it’s only an inch she moves. But it takes all the strength there still is in that little, shrivelled-up body of hers.

  And in a few minutes, maybe two, maybe three, or four, there won’t be any Mrs. Spencer any more. She simply won’t be any more. Soho will be, and Bellometti will be, and the man with the piano on wheels, and life will go on, and she’ll be forgotten. Monday, Tuesday, followed up by Wednesday and Thursday, and on Saturday stores close at two and people go into the country—hell! Where’s Julian? Don’t you see it’s only a matter of two or three minutes. She still moves. You might have a chance. Julian! Where the hell is he? Julian! Julian!

  Dim light. And stairs. An
d a landing. And stairs again. And a landing. Landing. Stairs. Don’t slip. Stairs. Landing. Millions of stairs lead from the ground floor to the first, and millions again up to the second and third. But quiet! You mustn’t disturb those other people who might live till Wednesday or Thursday—who knows?

  “Mother,” he says, “it’s me! Julian! It’s me!”

  Oh, she heard him. And she wants to say something to him. And again she tries to lift up her head. And it’s so, so heavy. Like the dumbells of Mr. Sullivan Kraut back there in Brighton. And she hands him the key. And he looks at it in surprise. And her lips move. What does she say? What does she want to say? Because it’s so faint, he must lean down close to her lips to hear the words. And quite weakly: “Upstairs—good to him—the key—it’s your brother.”

  Grey daylight creeps over the city. Whatever was black is converted into a hopeless and very dreary grey. A street and a few men going to work and a dog sniffing in the gutter. It rained all night and there are wooden partitions, and behind this partition there is a courtyard. It probably was a garden, but that must have been years ago. Now there is only one tree. Maybe it never had leaves. Just thin branches like the arms of proletarian women in drawings in chalk. And there are some mud holes and a few lonely bricks. And there stands a handcart with a bare coffin on it. Not only repulsive but hopeless—so hopeless—those slumber-boxes look. A box of an awkward shape and no man has to take a brush and paint on it in big letters: Handle With Care.

  It’s all just the same. And of no importance.

  A man comes slowly down the courtyard and he pushes this hand-cart into something like a garage.

  “Next, please,” says James, Doctor Finnagan’s servant. “Next, please! I think it’s you, Mrs. Cramer.”

  They are all here again. Throat trouble never seems to stop in this country. Lady Moorhen and the woman with the bunch of frost-eaten violets attached to her sealskin wrap. And the other one with the nervous tic. And she is still very much interested in the old Christmas number of Punch.

  Nothing has changed.

  Mrs. Cramer sits down on a chair, and she isn’t much to look at. The upper part of her is rather elaborate and seems to have no limit. The lower part can’t be seen, as Doctor Finnagan leans over her holding a little long-handled mirror inside her mouth. His other hand works a tongue-depressor at the same time.

  Finnagan says: “I am glad to say, Mrs. Cramer, that your throat looks much better to-day.”

  If one cares to look in the mirror one sees something like mountains. Huge tonsils. Gorgeous valleys in between. It’s like a grotto. A gorgeous sight accompanied by the less beautiful voice of Doctor Finnagan.

  “You just gargle every hour, Mrs. Cramer, and if you can come to-morrow at the same time I shall——” Oop! The mirror slides down the throat. The tongue-depressor gives way.

  “Ah!” shouts poor Mrs. Cramer, as Finnagan’s head falls heavily into her lap.

  Mrs. Cramer spits out the mirror and tongue-depressor like a cormorant does a fish, and again she shouts: “Ah! Ah!”

  But Finnagan doesn’t move. A wistful smile on his face and half-closed eyes. . . .

  “Next, please! ” said James a short while ago.

  Finnagan is dead. And Mrs. Cramer shouts “Help!” and James rushes in and Dame Laura’s Peke starts barking and the lady with the nervous tic drops the old Christmas number of Punch and they all try to see what has happened next door. And they see Finnagan on the floor and James trying to lift up the dead body, and they all feel like fainting, but they don’t, as there is no doctor around any more to revive them. But it’s very gruesome to see those old witches, their faces in horror, fright and excitement.

  Next, please!

  There’s a café somewhere in Soho, and there are a few chairs and tables and in the back a counter. A few pieces of pastry on a glass tray, and Bovril, it says on a poster, Gives You Strength.

  And a coffee-urn, steaming slightly. And a woman trying to add up figures on a torn piece of paper. And at one of these tables sits Julian, with an empty cup before him.

  The woman hands him an evening paper from time to time: “Would you care to read?”

  And she walks away again, shaking her head. Sitting for hours before an empty cup not only means bad business, but if this customer doesn’t speak or move, then it’s almost frightening.

  The woman approaches him again. Looks at him and says: “Another cup?”

  He probably hasn’t heard what she said, but he seems to realise he has sat here for hours, and he jumps up. And reaching for his hat he says: “How much?”

  “Threepence-halfpenny.”

  As he fumbles for the money in his pocket out falls a key. A key on a string. A Yale key. The key Mrs. Spencer, his mother, gave him. The key. And he hands her a shilling, doesn’t even wait for the change, and runs down the street, and the woman with a shilling in her hand shakes her head in surprise.

  And Julian runs down the street and he passes “J. Bellometti, Charcuterie.”

  Bellometti stops talking to a customer. “De madman,” he says. And goes on talking, not realising that this is Julian Spencer, son of a woman who gave him every week so and so many pounds, de shilling, de pence.

  And finally, Julian arrives at the house. And he runs upstairs and stops at the landing. Stops and tries to remember. ‘Upstairs.’ That’s what his mother said when she was dying. But she said something about ‘your——’ But of course she was unconscious. And slowly he walks upstairs. He looks around. He probably hasn’t been here before. Why should he have been? And there’s a new door. Strange. And he looks at the key. And there is a Yale lock. And he hears something. And there’s something moving. He doesn’t dare to advance. Strange. And it moves again. And a sound. Quite faintly. Behind that door. There is somebody calling. And he cocks his head forward. It’s like the voice of a child. No, not a child. It’s a dark, deep voice. No, not a man. And it’s quite close to the door. And he takes the key. And slowly pushes it into the hole. No, it won’t fit. You must hold it the other way. It’s upside down. It’s a Yale lock. And this voice again. “Mother! Mother!” Push in the key. Go ahead, Julian Spencer. Push the key in the lock, Julian. And now turn it around. Turn it! So! And now see for yourself.

  “Haaaaaaaa! . . .”

  He tries to hold himself up by the banister. His eyes wide open. Tries to hold himself up. His knees give way. He tries to hold himself. And everything turns. Turns round. Swirls round him. Look hard, Julian! Look close! Face it! Julian, face it! You can’t help facing it!

  On the threshold there stands, on two feet, horribly big feet, with sharp black claws, curved claws, on two big feet, thick, covered with wrinkled skin, thick feet holding upright—a body.

  Face it, Julian! Face it! A body with heavy folds. I can’t! I can’t! Two big eyes cut into the head. A monster! A monster! Huge forked tongue darting in and out. A reptile! It isn’t true! It’s a dream! A reptile!

  And a voice, deep, dark, creeps out of this body. No, no! This reptile speaks? It does! It does!

  “I AM YOUR BROTHER!”

  Nothing. Nothing. You can’t see, you can’t hear. There is nothing to see. Just voices falling in strange noises. Noises so loud you can’t hear what they are, where they come from. Noises. Terrific swelling, drowning, drowning everything you can see, you can think of. Dynamos, millions of dynamos are turning, revolving round, somewhere, anywhere, everywhere. Dynamos. Thunder and crashing. Walls, houses, and voices of people screaming. But it isn’t for help. . . . And chimes, and more chimes. Brass made sound by hundreds of hammers. And thunder, roaring thunder crashing over something. You can’t hear, you can’t see! A world, this world, his world is falling, falling to bits, crashing! You can’t see, but you can hear it. Spitting to death. And those awful chimes. . . .

  II

  But out of the mist, suddenly clean and clear, a street. A park behind thin iron railings. There might be trees, but you can’t see them or anything, as there is t
his thin fog, enough to cover everything up. And in front of those railings a barrel-organ, and you can’t see the man who is playing it. Or it might be a woman. And next to the organ there is a thin-legged child, a little girl: little bonnet, little coat, quite shabby, and long, thin legs with little shoes. And she is step-dancing. Click-a-clack, click-a-clack! And it snows, click-a-clack, big snowflakes, flakes faintly dancing, falling, dancing, click-a-clack, snowing, snow, click-a-clack!

  Strange music this was, and now it’s stopped.

  And the little girl stops, and she looks, rather frightened, towards the person who is hidden behind that barrel-organ, and she watches for her cue and she nods her head, and the organ starts again.

  But quite differently now. A quite different tune altogether. Strange, that this music comes from a barrel-organ. It really can’t. . . . And strange that this child—oh, just a child of six or seven years of age—should sing a song like this.

  It’s snowing. Snowflakes falling slowly. One, two, three, four: quite a lot. Falling, dancing, hanging in the air and falling. Snowflakes. . . .

  “Dark, dark, dark,

  Life is so dark without a light.

  Life is so dark.

  Take a candle,

  Take a candle,

  And light it if you can.

  The wind of death is blowing hard.

  A candle is a tiny thing,

  It gives so little light.

  Burn it here and burn it there,

  You must burn it everywhere,

  It gives so little light.

  The wind of death is blowing hard,

  You don’t know what to do.

  Light your candle here and there,

  The wind won’t blow it out.

  A flame is better than a light,

  A flame will always burn.”

  Now—but this is really impossible! There was a child singing and a barrel-organ playing: that all this should suddenly disappear—that’s impossible! There’s the path, the railings, fog, trees behind the railings. Nothing has changed. That’s all there. Strange. They have suddenly disappeared. They’ve just disappeared like nothing on earth. A man is passing, his coat collar turned up, his hat pulled low over his face—ah! It’s Julian. Julian Spencer passing by. And he goes along the railing and he suddenly stops. Has he heard a voice? Quite. Where from? Has he heard something? And his hand creeps up to his forehead. Painful. Pain. Shooting pains. Voice, snow and railing, not to forget those trees in the distance. They all flow together. And out again. A medley. A medley of what? Hell! It’s cold. And it’s late. Don’t let’s think. Don’t let’s think now. There was a voice, and a few bars of music are still hanging in the air, and a child’s voice singing: “A flame will always burn!” Yes. One could hear it quite distinctly. And he looks through the railings into the park, and there is nothing. And he looks to the right, to the left, and down the street. There is nobody, nothing. So he shakes his head and walks along, a bundle of scores under his arm, and there is a house, and he stops in front of it, and there are quite a few plates attached to quite a few bells, and a bigger brass plate, and it says: “Melodia Publishing Co., Ltd.” and underneath: “H. Catfish, General Manager.” And he disappears into the house. He is gone. It’s still snowing.