GS Marlowe - I Am Your Brother

by (epub)

  A telegraph boy on a bike just passes down the street. He turns into another street and stops before a cigarette shop: “Packet of Players, please!”

  “Sixpence or a shilling?” asks the woman, her hands—little short red fingers—stuck in mittens.

  “Shilling,” says the boy, “and a box of matches.” And he swings on his bike again.

  The street. Another street. Very little traffic. A push-cart with grapes, pears, apples, and other watery fruit slightly covered with snow, and damp, squashy tissue-paper. Oop, easy! The boy stops before the late Mrs. Spencer’s house. He looks at the telegram, looks at the number of the house, looks at the telegram again. You know, those people who love or hate to live in houses and streets like this very seldom get telegrams. Letters and post-cards, if anything at all.

  Finally he enters the house. He rings the bell, once, twice, but nobody answers, and as the door is only half shut he enters. “Hallo!” he shouts. Strange echo: “Hallo!” again and again.

  There is not a sound, so he walks upstairs, rather slowly. Maybe he is frightened, as this is such a very sinister and strange tumble-down staircase, with dark wet patches on the walls. He arrives at the first landing, knocks at the living-room door.

  “Telegram for Spencer,” he shouts, and faintly, “Telegram for Spencer” comes back to him. An echo acts like this, but it’s sometimes quite frightening to hear your own voice thrown back: so he shouts louder: “Hallo!” and “Telegram for Spencer!”

  Maybe they live farther upstairs, and he walks the first few steps up to the attic, and he hears something moving. Quite uncanny, this sound. So he quickly runs downstairs, stops at the first landing, and pushes the telegram under the door, and down he goes.

  But upstairs: hunger and waiting for somebody to come with food makes one nervous, and so against the door with his head pressed down to the floor, so as to see through the crack under the door—the Brother. His heavy, hideous head with the two rigid big eyes swaying nervously at the entrance to his dark and cold cave—the attic. Tongue darting in and out, feverishly, nervously. Food! Food!

  You must wait. We all have to wait some time or another.

  Julian Spencer gets up in the bare little outer office of Melodia Publishing Co., Ltd.

  “Do you think I will have to wait very long?” he says, turning round to the little dwarfy office-boy, who wears a wig, casually, and tries to light a fire in the old-fashioned slender rusty beast of a stove, which has a huge long pipe to get rid of its gases and fumes through a freezing chimney.

  “You are not waiting for Mr. Catfish,” says the boy, smiling wistfully, “are you? Because he can’t see you to-day.”

  “But,” says Julian Spencer, “I had an appointment with him for ten o’clock this morning. I telephoned to Mr. Catfish. Mr. Catfish said he would see me this morning.”

  “He couldn’t have said so,” said the boy, going on with his work of lighting the stove. “He is contemplating to-day. And besides, you couldn’t have telephoned to him as there is no telephone round here. That’s quite simple, isn’t it?”

  “What?” says Julian Spencer faintly, “isn’t this the Melodia Publishing Co. and Catfish the General Manager?”

  “So you think,” says the dwarf, “and it might be, but it just isn’t. You see? Besides,” he adds knowingly, “to-day is Thursday, and Wednesday is always a bad day to start business, you see. The same applies to the seventeenth of March, so you had better not wait.”

  And all this is said in a staccato, monotonous tone without any inflexions whatsoever.

  “Fool,” says Spencer, “I don’t know what you are talking about. You are not quite right in the head.”

  “Don’t pay any attention to him,” says a rather stout, terrifically healthy middle-aged man suddenly, quite suddenly, standing behind Julian Spencer and, opening the door to the inner sanctum, he adds: “It’s only the brother, you know, the brother of my office-boy—he had to stay at home—influenza.”

  “Quite,” says Julian Spencer, “I understand.” But he is very nervous by now. “I understand, Mr. Catfish.”

  “What did you say?” says the business-man, highly amused. “Did you call me Catfish?” And he bursts into laughter. “Funny name—Catfish. That’s what you said, Mr. Spencer?” And he goes on laughing ponderously, his body, his whole body, shaking heavily, convulsively, under his thunderous laughter. Finally he wipes tears of laughter from his face and, quite sober and civilised again, he says sharply: “My name is Blomberg, Oscar Blomberg. And now, what can I do for you, Mr. Spencer?”

  “I brought a few songs which I thought might interest you,” says Spencer humbly. “We played them quite often in our show. Here, I thought you might care to look at them.”

  The business-man picks them up from his desk and glances, not entirely without interest, over the pages. “Not so bad,” he says. “Did you write the words yourself?”

  “Yes, I tried.”

  “Rather personal,” says the business-man, looking up from the score and smiling. “All dedicated to your—” and hesitatingly: “Wife? fiancée?”

  Julian Spencer only nods his head.

  Blomberg suddenly shouts: “I said wife or fiancée? This is a question, Mr. Spencer, that demands an answer!” And suddenly bursting into terrific laughter again, burying his face in his heavy-set hands, he sighs: “Catfish! Catfish, he called me!” Wiping his face, sobered up once more after his unwarranted outburst, he asks: “Will you sit down and play this for me?” Pointing to the baby-grand piano standing in the left corner of the inner sanctum.

  Julian Spencer, only too glad, after all these strange happenings, of some interest and a chance to play one of his songs, rises quickly, sits down at the piano, and starts playing. His fingers slide over the keyboard, but—my God!—no sound comes.

  “Beautiful,” says Blomberg. “But you might just as well open the piano and take out what that fool put in there this morning to annoy me. I wish to God Stephen would come back again.” Explaining, he adds: “Name of my office-boy.”

  Julian opens the piano and takes out a heavy overcoat, two hats, and a lady’s purse.

  “And now,” says Blomberg, “we will start all over again. It’s very good, I like the beginning.”

  A very beautiful song—‘It’s all for You’—flutters, floats, flies from the instrument, and obviously makes an impression on Blomberg, because he gives up fighting his cigar. In fact, he drops it in the ash-tray, puts the match back in the box again, and gets up from his chair.

  “That is very beautiful, Mr. Spencer, I mean to say, it’s good stuff. I mean, it’s all right. You just leave all your songs here. We’ll consider them and send you an offer. You needn’t come for an answer: we shall let you know in due course. Good-bye.”

  And Julian: “Thank you, Mr. Blomberg.” And quite faintly: “Good-bye, Mr. Blomberg.”

  He is probably trying to find his hat and coat. At least, Blom­berg thinks so, and that’s why he says: “You left it in the other room, Mr. Spencer. Your coat isn’t here, it’s in the other room. Good-bye, Mr. Spencer.”

  “Yes, it’s in the other room,” says Spencer, and shuts the door behind him.

  And there he stands, and this little dwarfy young man with his idiotic remarks is still fumbling about with the stove.

  “You can’t make things burn,” he says, “when you want them to burn. You have to wait for the wind, sir.”

  “Quite,” says Julian absent-mindedly, still looking at the door leading to Blomberg’s office. And he goes and opens the door again: “Excuse me, Mr. Blomberg, but I was just wondering if you would care to look at all these other songs I brought with me, because there are a few old ones which are really not so good. If I may take those with me——”

  Blomberg doesn’t look up from his desk.

  “I say, Mr. Blomberg, do you think—you know—your decision, sir—as it is quite urgent—Mr. Blomberg—if I could possibly have an answer very soon, you would oblige me ve
ry much!”

  Blomberg still doesn’t look up from his desk. There is a dead pause. It seems like hours, not hours of sixty minutes, so many seconds, but slow hours, which have so many months and years and ages.

  “You couldn’t possibly decide now about the song you like?”

  There is another pause. Blomberg suddenly raises his head: “Of course I could, why not? I am the business manager, I am the last word. Who said I wasn’t the last word in this damned outfit? Shut the door,” he shouts to the dwarf, and the dwarf appears at the door, and says quite casually: “The wind is bothering you, too, Mr. Blomberg, isn’t it? The wind.”

  And then he shuts the door.

  “Sit down, Mr. Spencer, I knew perfectly well you weren’t looking for your coat and hat a few minutes ago. I know you came to me because you thought I might snap up one or other of your songs at once. In fact, you saw me already—you saw this certain Mr. Catfish flapping a few pound notes on the desk. Maybe four thin ones, thin as tissue paper—the fivers. But Mr. Catfish doesn’t exist, and Mr. Blomberg is a business man. And so I am afraid, Mr. Spencer, you will have to go on looking for your hat and coat until I have decided.”

  “But the song I played,” says Spencer, bargaining, “you did like that song? I am sure it would make a hit, although I personally think I could write something better if given a chance.”

  “Chance?” says the business man. “That is a bit too much. We give money, but we don’t give chances!” And lowering his voice, he adds: “One mustn’t ask too much. We all struggle, not only the Spencers but all the Blombergs in the world struggle and never get a chance. One really shouldn’t use this expression, this word. It’s something like Love, Belief, Christ, or God.”

  “Excuse me,” says Julian, quite humbly. “I didn’t want to hurt your feelings, but I’ve been in three offices to-day already, and I have only four copies of my various songs and there is just one copy left, and if I don’t hear from any of them in due course I shall be very hard up—you understand?”

  Mr. Blomberg nods his head quite sympathetically: “I understand, Mr. Spencer. One should always make six copies or more. Then one doesn’t get stuck, Mr. Spencer. It’s always a matter how many copies one has left.” Spencer gets up again, but walking towards the door, he is suddenly stopped by Blomberg.

  “I didn’t say you were to go, Mr. Spencer. You are not a unique case. There are lots of good artists. Even geniuses have to wait their turn. But I can see the whole thing: you want to get married, married as quickly as possible, because women don’t wait. She might find somebody else, and on top of this female you probably have a mother, or a sister, or even a brother who can’t make a living for himself, because he is stupid, lazy, or who knows, maybe worse than that. And you have to support him. Believe me, Mr. Spencer, there are such things between Heaven and Hell”—and interrupting himself—“it’s really more Hell than Heaven. Those creatures used to cry for paid fun, a little entertainment money; now it’s food, just ordinary food you stuff into yourself, snap it, chew it, gulp it down with a smacking hideous noise, like a snake. They feed and digest, and sometimes their bodies wake up and they ask for a little more than that. First, it’s spiritual food. They call this thing love—” and suddenly stopping, Blomberg changes the tone of his voice completely and says: “That song—‘This Little Thing called Love’—was a hit, and I think we regret, Mr. Spencer, that we didn’t publish it. And as I said before, you’ll hear from us in due course. Good-bye!”

  Everybody and everything catches cold on a day like this. Especially down here in Brighton, a seaside resort like Brighton. In November. Even the clock seems to have caught a cold, for it stops suddenly on a hoarse eleventh stroke, whereas it should be striking twelve, as it is midday and a very thin watery sun tries to use a few empty beer glasses standing on the bar-counter of the Old Ship Hotel as a make-up mirror.

  Shark, the stage manager, and Ritornelli, who have shrunk to friends, owing to the cold weather and mutual hardship, are sitting together. Not so much talking, as contemplating things in general. Ritornelli blows his nose and this is the cue for renewed conver­sation.

  So Shark says: “You know, Ritornelli, I rather like your way of playing those songs. There’s more pep in them, more speed, not so slow, dreamy and spiritual. The boy might be a genius,” he adds, “but it doesn’t come across, and hell! who cares?”

  Ritornelli says: “Quite.”

  And is rather flattered and grateful for Shark’s compliment, which somehow warms him up. There is no whisky and soda or beer yet, as there are certain laws which only allow people to get drunk at certain times of the day; so he is doubly grateful for this compliment and he grows almost chatty.

  “The girl seems quite heart-broken,” he says, sneeringly. “But Sullivan——”

  “What?” says Shark, “you mean Kraut? Our strong man?”

  “Quite,” says Ritornelli, “He goes to the post-office for her. That German. Goes and sends telegrams to the fiancé. As a matter of fact, I have seen him twice. He doesn’t mind. He does what he is told. And only yesterday he said to me, laughingly—it was in German, but something like ‘the last word isn’t spoken yet.’ I mean, something to that effect.”

  “Thank God,” says Shark, “we don’t have to bother any more. Times are over, when we had those funny sensations. Ha! Ha!”

  And to Joseph, the flat-footed waiter, who had waddled over in the meantime to open the bar: “Two bitters, Joseph.” And to Ritornelli: “This is my party.”

  “All right,” says Ritornelli, “suits me, Shark.” And he puts the two measly bits back in his pocket.

  If one wants money, or if one has to borrow money, or if one is simply forced to get money—cash—as quickly as possible, nothing matters much. Only the money, of course.

  People, faces, ties and suits, bowler or top-hats: it’s all the same. A hand gives and a hand takes. Quickly grabbing that which is given. Hands only.

  Julian Spencer pawns his watch.

  Nothing much to look at. And a voice says: “Fifteen shillings,” and the watch-chain goes from one hand—Julian’s—into the pawnbroker’s, who hands over a little slip of paper.

  That sort of paper one can jolly well lose. It isn’t so easy to make money, to pay something back or redeem it. But money changes hands so quickly: so there are still more hands. First holding some messy stuff; kidneys, dripping blood, and liver and tripe, and all the other hideous-looking parts of the inner anatomy of sheep, calves, bulls, or any other eatable animals.

  Klunk! Down goes the money. You see, it’s quite easy and quite short and quick this chemical process. A watch—tripe—you see?

  And in the attic, digesting heavily, blowing out his hideous body—the Brother.

  Closed eyes. Digesting sleepily.

  Julian comes slowly down the staircase and stops on the landing at the living-room door.

  It isn’t the same Julian we used to know: not a man of twenty-eight or thirty. He looks very much older, worn out, and haggard, and so very tired. It’s like a sudden awakening when somebody shouts from downstairs: “Hallo! Hallo!”

  A burly-looking fellow, who looks like a retired wrestler in an apron and overall, shouts: “Is this Spencer’s?” And he takes out some spectacles and focuses his eye on a slip of paper. “We came to fetch a chest-of-drawers and a samovar—wait!” he says. “Sofa. They can’t write plainly in the office.”

  “Come upstairs,” says Julian. “It’s in here.” But he doesn’t move, just points to the door, and the man comes upstairs and opens it. Though, before he enters, he shouts back down to the street: “Hey, Bill! Come up and bring another strap!” And picking up from under the door a letter and two telegrams, he says, handing them to Julian: “Something for you, Mr. Spencer.”

  “Thank you,” says Julian, “thank you.”

  And he slowly opens one telegram and he reads it and shoves it into his pocket. And he opens the second, and he is still holding it in his hand when th
e first man comes back, grunting heavily with the weight of the chest-of-drawers.

  “How much did he pay you for this?” he asks, stopping before he descends the stairs. “Ten bob? Eh? Come on, Bill,” he says, not succeeding in getting any answer out of Julian. “Now—easy! Can you hold it?”

  And they come upstairs again to fetch the sofa, and Julian Spencer is still standing there, his eyes fixed on the telegram. And the first man looks at Bill and they both smile and disappear into the living-room and come back again, and they stop for a moment and hand him a slip of paper, and the first man explains: “That’s only to say we have received something from you, Mr. Spencer.”

  And the entrance door to the house which the late Mrs. Spencer always used to lock so carefully is slammed. Slammed.