GS Marlowe - I Am Your Brother

by (epub)

  And they leave again through the other door.

  And suddenly they stand in a charcuterie. Kidneys, liver, tripe, split waxen bodies of sheep, calves and oxen, and Bellometti, with his little finger and the presented palm of his hand, conveys the fact that you must pay for bought goods. And Spencer tries suddenly to persuade him that it isn’t for himself, and he points at a calendar—not to-day, but to-morrow, or the following day he will pay. But Bellometti only sneers at him—he knows this stunt. It’s always the same with de customers who have so much in their heads—talent, fantasy, and all that rotten spongy bunk.

  And Lamenta doesn’t want to see it any more, and out he drags her into another house. This is a stationery store: pencil, papers, typewriter ribbons, carbon papers, and all the paraphernalia one needs to wrap up the children of one’s fantasy, talent, and so-called genius. And as Julian reaches out for a sheet of music-paper, sharp and quick the salesman’s head goes: No, you can’t have it! And in a long book he shows him that on the 26th of June there is a balance of a pound and ten shillings—and just let’s see—on the next page, on the 29th, sixteen shillings and fourpence—how about it, Mr. Spencer? says the forefinger, tapping violently on the last amount. Julien tries with his eyes and hands to bargain with him. Imploring him. A few sheets of music paper mean everything to him. But the salesman’s head shakes No.

  And out goes Julian. And Lamenta, dragging after him.

  And there is another house, and it’s just an enormous office—a stockbroker’s, or a banker’s. A huge desk with three, four, five telephones, and a ticker in the background, and a blackboard, and two liveried little boys are writing with a piece of chalk: 10, 15, 17, 20, 23 1/2. And the stockbroker is all ears and eyes ready to listen to Julian, the artist. He can afford to have a sense of beauty and an appreciation of the arts; this type of man who has a box at the opera and is seen at the openings of galleries. And he gestures, smilingly, and oh! so good-natured and understanding: What can I do for you? Oh, do sit down! And Julian sits down, and he wants to take a bundle of manuscripts out of the pocket of his shabby overcoat—no, gestures the banker—have a cigar first! Don’t look for matches, here is a match. And wait, dear Mr. Spencer—how about a glass of sherry? And he rings the bell and an office-boy at once brings in two glasses of sherry. And Julian again tries to explain why he came, but the banker interrupts him, and hands him his personal card. And his pretty daughter, and his wife—they enter at this moment and he smilingly introduces Julian to them. And the daughter looks at him admiringly, but the mother pushes her aside. She shows so much more admiration for him, because she is older and her husband is not so very young any more either, and she conveys with her eyes and a subdued movement of her hips that she is a woman, not only of social, but of great sex standing, if given a chance. And the banker smiles, and he somehow excuses himself, pointing at all those figures, and with a kind gesture of both hands he shakes Julian’s hand most heartily and pats him on the shoulder. But you’ll understand, I’m busy—work first, and work last, and in between admiration for art and genius.

  And Julian again shows Lamenta that life is always like this, and out they go.

  And there are no more houses, but just the steep road, so steep that Lamenta can’t keep up with him. The air is so thin, and this road will never end, and heavy fog falls, and they can’t see their way.

  It’s quite a mountain. I told you. A mountain of immeasurable altitude.

  But suddenly—snow. Light, falling snowflakes, and a huge plateau on top of the mountain, and an enormous sun just risen. And when they look down, deep down on the other side, there is glorious country. Like a face—this land before them—with lakes here and there. The heavenly face of unknown land. And a gentle breeze blows up from it. And a young man clad in a costume of no known period appears with two horses, leading them by their bridles. And another man carries on his shoulder a very beautiful wooden box inlaid with silver, sparkling in the first rays of the rising sun. And Julian changes his coat, and a cloak is draped round Lamenta’s shoulders, and they mount. Beautiful music springs up. It’s still snowing. And as the road slopes down between rocks and forests of bare trees, the rider, who used once to be Julian Spencer, suddenly stops, dismounts and picks a snowdrop. And there is another one, and one more, and over there are hundreds. And he picks and picks, and this makes a bunch, and he hands it to Lamenta, and she smiles, and her hand slides over his hair.

  And as they advance towards the valley, this glorious, unearthly, peaceful spot down below, there are no rocks or snow, but blooming orchards and murmuring brooks, and this is Spring.

  And further down, as the road turns round, there is Summer, with singing crickets, and the cry of a cock in the distance.

  And here is a lake. And on the other side of the lake a magnificent house. A terrace; enormous pillars holding a balcony; and all the windows are open wide. And the man swings down from his horse and he lifts Lamenta—this beautiful woman—from her saddle, and they both enter the house.

  There are marble staircases, and windows down to the floor, and through the windows you can see the lake, and beautiful old elms and blossoming hedges and trees. Swans on the lake, and a peacock spreads his tail with a cry.

  They both walk upstairs, and they reach the landing; and there are some more stairs and another landing, and finally they reach the balcony, and there they stand. The shimmering, glittering, quietly-singing country before them. And there the lake. And Julian puts his arm around her shoulders, and for the first time he speaks: “This is my home—the land of the Seven Seas!”

  Lamenta nods.

  And then they walk through the park. And through the branches of those old trees fall patches of sunlight, dancing over the road. And as they go farther down the park they see: small houses, a fence, a little garden, and a house with blinking windows, for the sun is setting now behind the friendly hills.

  And in the first house a neatly-dressed woman appears in the doorway, and she smiles at Julian and Lamenta.

  “This is my Mother’s house,” Julian says. “And over there, behind that hill, lives my Brother, but you can’t see him now.”

  And they walk along. “And over there lives a musician. He was my teacher.”

  And a friendly face of an old man with a long white beard appears at the window.

  “It’s all very quiet and peaceful up here, so quiet, that on some evenings you can hear the singing of flowers and trees. And in all the houses over the hill live people, and they wake up and they hear this singing and they cry a bit—it’s just sheer happiness—because they know that they are all understood, and they feel happy and go to sleep again. You know, Lamenta, it took me a long time to understand that all this is me—my work, myself. How wonderful that all my struggles, eternal fog, houses, people who call me Julian Spencer, and give me money or let me starve—this other world on the other side of the mountain—that they really can’t do anything to me as long as I have this land, this country of the Seven Seas!”

  And lowering his voice, he says: “It takes so little to be happy.”

  A huge full moon replaces the sinking sun, and the first few stars arrange themselves in the clear night sky.

  They both sit down on the high grass, which is mysterious with all the voices of crickets, like a vast jungle. And they lean back and then they lie in the grass, close together, and Julian speaks again: “I told you I was rich, Lamenta, but people always think of money when they use words like rich. Wealth—what does it mean? It’s cold gold that grows deep down in caves. I own the stars, the moon, and the shimmering waters—look!” And he reaches out in the air: “Here are some stars for you!” And little stars, millions of shimmering sparkling little stars he throws over her face and her beautiful body. “Maybe you want the moon? Here is the moon.” And the rigid copper mask of the moon he hands to her, and up flies the moon again to the sky.

  And then he says nothing. Only the singing of millions of crickets, and something which
could be called music. And there are thousands of mysteriously faint voices. “Glorious night!” they say.

  Then, bending down to Lamenta, Julian says tenderly: “But you can’t speak. Maybe it’s getting cold around you? Maybe you are not as happy as I am?”

  And suddenly Lamenta’s lips move, and quietly she speaks, and the words are these: “Stars, moon, this world, and God—and all is you I love.”

  The Eighteenth Century clock on the mantelpiece sounds out, chatteringly. One, two.

  Did you ever see a candle flickering to death? Have you seen how it tries and tries so hard to live and give light, but the merciless darkness falls from the ceiling, and drowns the poor flickering light?

  Julian gets up from the couch and says quietly: “I must go. It is late.”

  But Lamenta’s hand—and white, shimmering, naked arm—tries to hold him back, as if to say “Don’t go.”

  And Julian sits down again. And in the dying glow from the fire his hands slide along her face and her arms and her body.

  “This was a long night,” he says. “And you won’t forget me, Lamenta? Promise me, swear! Don’t ever forget me. We are all so alone. And if I know that you are, that you exist, it makes life lighter, easier—and maybe I can see you again? Strange. I only met you to-night. But didn’t we know each other all these long and cold and so dreary years? Lamenta, dearest, I love you.”

  But all of a sudden he jumps up and he covers his face with both hands and murmurs: “Viva! Viva! It’s you, it’s you I love!”

  And he dashes from the dark drawing-room. Chased. Haunted. Cornered. Cornered and caged by this other woman he had almost forgotten!

  A post-office at night somewhere in a cul-de-sac. They always seem to retire at night to unearthly and very obscure places, where you can hardly find them. And they are always closed. And so Julian has to run down the street again and there is nobody on the pavement, and a taxi passes by and it slows down and almost stops, like a late whore trying to solicit business. And Julian approaches the driver: “Where’s the nearest post-office?”

  And the driver jumps down and opens the door and is quite gallant, and he says: “Further down, first street on the left.”

  And Julian says: “Thank you!” and runs along.

  And the driver bangs the door: “Bastard!”

  And goes tottering off in his shaky cab.

  The man who has his hair cut like a Tec toothbrush turns round, looks at the electric clock which jumps convulsively from second to second, and says: “Two-thirty” to himself, and writes it on the telegram form and—whoop! puts the rubber stamp across. Then turning to the other post-office official, he says: “You know, Alexander, people should never send telegrams at night—they suddenly get worked up and they send all sorts of blah-blah messages. Look at this!” He shoves the form over to the desk of the man who answers to the name of Alexander.

  “Ha!” says Alexander, because he is obviously too tired to say “Ha! Ha!” twice as it is late, and people shouldn’t send messages at night, and all that.

  But the other one is rather chatty, and so the toothbrush says: “Remember yesterday? The good-looking chap who came in and sent a night-letter to New York, signing ‘Lovingest Cordelia.’ He was a fine one. Ha! Ha! ‘Cordelia’ I ask you.”

  To this Alexander only remarks: “That’s no man’s name, is it?”

  “Of course not,” says the other one, and adds with a sneer: “But was he a man?”

  “I see,” says Alexander drowsily. “To-morrow is Thursday.”

  And on he goes, adding up figures, but it’s really just counting sheep.

  Julian turns out the lamp. Only a street lantern gives a dim light to the room. Now a car is turning round in the street, and its spot-light is passing over the wall and lights the room for a second.

  Julian can’t sleep, and he moves about, turning from one side to the other, and he turns on the light again. And here he lies, his head resting on one hand, and he seems to be thinking of something, whatever it may be. Perhaps it’s the telegram. Perhaps it’s Lamenta. Or Viva and Brighton—who knows what it is? And he turns the light out again and falls asleep.

  But suddenly there is a movement at the door of the room filled with darkness, and it’s like a shuffle of feet, and Julian wakes up and he turns on the light.

  “Hallo!” he shouts.

  And there is silence again, and Julian shakes his head, slightly frightened, but he is very tired and very sleepy, and so he falls back on the cushions and a tired hand turns out the lamp.

  Silence. And only the reflection from the street-lantern and a siren in the distance. Boats do slide up the river at these hours of the night. And another steamboat answers. Silence.

  Again. The door of the room opens slowly, quite slowly, and it isn’t the wind, as the entrance door of the house is closed, and so are the windows. The lately deceased Mrs. Spencer always used to look carefully after doors and windows, and so does Julian, and therefore it is very strange that a door should suddenly open by itself at a quarter past three in the morning.

  I say, doesn’t it give you the shivers to think that there is something headless, something without a face, just feet and arms and very pale hands with a high stiff collar but no head, in a house where you stay or live? And it opens doors at half-past three in the morning, and if you look behind this door there is nothing, simply nothing. At least that’s what you hope. But here, in this very special case and house, there is something, because you can hear—and this quite distinctly—some sort of a hiss, and if you look closer—my God!—it’s the Brother!

  And he walks, moving his awkward, hideous, huge, wrinkled body slowly into the room: foot by foot, zig-zag, zig-zag, and the eyes are shining like huge cat’s eyes, and he advances towards the bed. Out and in goes the tongue, restlessly. And he lifts up his head. And he looks at Julian, sniffing, and he gets up on his hind legs like a huge dog, sniffing, tongue darting in and out.

  “Brother Julian!” says the deep voice.

  And Julian wakes up, and he sees the monster standing at the end of his bed, and he wants to shout, to scream, but he can’t, and his hand reaches to his throat. . . .

  “It’s me, Brother Julian,” says the monster. “It’s only me.”

  “What do you want?” Julian finally gets himself to ask. “What do you want, coming down here? I locked the door. I never forget to lock the door.”

  “I was so glad you left the door open, Brother Julian. It was so cold upstairs, and I haven’t seen you since yesterday.”

  “But the stairs,”says Julian, horrified. “How did you——?”

  “It was hard for me, Brother Julian. It’s all so steep and so dark. Now I shall stay with you.”

  “You won’t!” shouts Julian. “You won’t! Do you hear me?”

  “So I must go upstairs back again?” says the monster, sadly. “Or if I go further down—do I find Mother? You said she was so many steps down below.”

  “Go!” says Julian. “Go upstairs. Mother will come to-morrow. You’ve had your food, and——”

  “It isn’t food,” says the brother quietly, “it’s the warmth I miss so much. I shall stay with you.” And he slides his huge hideous body up on to the bed.

  Julian jumps up, dragging pillows and blankets behind him, and the Brother falls helplessly on his back, on to the floor. “Brother Julian, why do you hate me? I love you, my Brother . . . Julian . . . Brother Julian, I love you so!”

  Calm and quiet is the sea. Way out a trawler, pushing slowly ahead in the early hours of the morning.

  It’s a grey sky, and a slight fog. The sun probably won’t come out to-day. And the streets of Brighton are still quite deserted. Only a private car, which works down here as a taxi, rolls along slowly.

  It can’t be more than a quarter to eight, or eight. And when the telegraph-boy appears on the staircase of the boarding-house where the Palace Pier Theatre artists live, he doesn’t wake anybody up. Those artists go late to bed and t
hey rise very late in the day. And only Coco’s Wizard barks for a moment, to fall back to sleep in his basket again.

  The telegraph-boy looks at the doors and it says: 6, and the next one is 7, then 8, and so forth up to the window in the corridor. And all sorts of cranky-looking shoes before the doors. And a milk bottle here and there. And a Daily Mirror. And here an Express, folded nicely in half. It would be quite funny to judge from the shoes who lives or just sleeps behind any of these doors. This is obviously Kraut’s. They’re quite big, the size of a baby-grand, and quite high, double soles. And farther down the corridor—ah!—those are the rooms of the girls. Dainty little shoes. You know that sort of shoe one doesn’t buy, but picks up at a special sale, six-and-eleven, lady, it’s a bargain! They don’t last very long, but gents always look at the feet of a female first—hence the importance of dainty chaussures.

  The telegraph-boy approaches No. 11, and knocks at the door, and he knocks again, and again, and he is quite anxious to deliver a telegram to a woman called Viva Naldi. Boys, men of a certain age, so very seldom get a chance to see a woman at this time of the day. So he knocks again, and another door opens and Mr. Shark pokes his head out—he is a bad sleeper—and he asks: “I’m the stage-manager. Something for me?”

  And the boy says “No, it’s for Naldi—Viva Naldi.”

  And Wizard suddenly starts barking somewhere in No. 7, and Coco appears in pyjamas: “Can’t be for me,” he says.

  “Why do you ask, then?” says Ritornelli, who appears in a dressing-gown, armed with a toothbrush and a glass of cloudy water.

  “Naldi,” says the boy again, and he is quite insistent that the woman bearing this name should receive it.