GS Marlowe - I Am Your Brother

by (epub)

  He is quite exhausted by now and he sits down heavily on the edge of the half-opened bed. He begins again, pathetically like a Shylock, but here it’s not money, but more, or—depending how you look at it—less. Maybe you might say less: it’s sex. Concentrated, undiluted, old-fashioned sex. Grade A.

  “Why don’t you say something, Viva?”

  And an embarrassed voice: “There’s nothing to say. It just happened, and it just changed.”

  “Changed,” he repeats. “You told me, in so many words, that you felt that everything was over with this Spencer—that he didn’t write to you—and now, only to-day, because you read in the papers that his music is going to be performed, you just change, want to pick up again. You know”—and he approaches Viva quite closely and he swings his forefinger—“it’s just vanity—being the sweetie of a great artist—may I introduce here, may I introduce there—that’s my sweetie—all over the place. All spiritual—all up in the air again. I was good enough—” and he points at the bed—“but one doesn’t talk about it. One just does it and he shouldn’t know. Right, what? Me—just the strong man in a lousy vaudeville show in Brighton. Of course, Sullivan Kraut has no heart, he has nothing up here, just a poor sap, and a bad performer.” Lowering his voice: “And not so young any more, either. And there, Miss Viva, you made a mistake.”

  “I didn’t make any mistake,” says Viva.

  “Don’t interrupt me,” shouts Kraut. “Just trying to muddle up—trying to tell me that I am just a lousy foreigner—ein Fremder from Berlin who doesn’t know better—just a clumsy good-natured chap. You see, Miss Viva, even Kraut—” and he gets quite tall and dangerously slim—“even Kraut can be a snake. Bite you, bite I.”

  “Oh,” says Viva, “do what you like. I don’t care a damn—it’s all the same.”

  “We Germans,” he continues, “we have heads of stone, feelings, will, quick decision, and let’s go at it. What we want, we get. That’s all.”

  “Just wait and see,” says Viva. “You can’t bully me. You don’t know what you are talking about. Julian belongs to me, and I belong to him. So it was always, and so it will be, and nothing has changed. Concert or no concert”—and she raises her voice—“and don’t you dare to speak to me again. I’m fed up with you, the show, and all.” And suddenly bursting into tears: “I’m going home.”

  Kraut, completely forgetting his part, lowers his voice and deeply concerned, he says, looking at his huge onion-like watch: “You might be able to catch the train at seven-twenty-five. I shall ’phone for a taxi.”

  “You’re a pet, Sully,” she says, overcome, whereupon Kraut shamelessly bursts into tears, too.

  “You do not leave me,” he says, “I know you love me. I know nothing has changed. Even if you go back for to-night.”

  “That I won’t,” says Viva.

  But Kraut hasn’t heard this remark, and he goes on sobbing. “To-morrow you come back to your old Sully. Gewiss. Sicher.” And suddenly, quite boyish, he jumps up: “To George Street, where I looked at that house, four rooms, kitchen and larder, and upstairs”—and he smiles, though one big tear is rolling down his cheek—“there is still room for a little nursery.” And quite sentimental, and very sugary, he says: “George Street, Number Eleven. Mr. and Mrs. Kraut.” And correcting: “Sullivan Kraut. Little people, good people. Little fun, little money, but good food and happiness, and peace and confidence and——” he interrupts himself and looks around, realising that his whole, oh, so beautiful and inspired speech was completely wasted.

  Viva left the room a long time ago.

  Mr. Sullivan Kraut gives his usual trombone-like bellow from his larynx: “Gruh-hu!” Blows his nose, swallows a good old-fashioned spit, shrugs his shoulders and suddenly drags out his timepiece and exits quickly.

  A very pathetic nation—those Germans.

  A little table: Louis Quatorze. A pair of smoked glasses. The edge of a bed. The strong glare of a sun-ray lamp. And all that over-shadowed by the clean-shaven face of a man with flaxen hair. Two muscular arms—what arms! And strong hands! And up and down they go, kneading something.

  To judge from the glasses it’s obviously the great Sir Desmond Castle, composer and maecenas of artists.

  Quietly the man goes on with his work and a slight humming from underneath is the only response.

  But the masseur doesn’t pay any attention and with the precision of a chronometer he goes on. Up and down. And here and there—oop!—that hurts—and the humming stops and the voice from underneath: “Sakta! Sakta!”

  And the Swede says: “Jhe ber om ursakt,” rather apologetically.

  And the voice of the butler: “I have put your clothes ready, Sir. Seven-fifteen, Sir.”

  And the masseur stops and puts a blanket over the living corpse of Sir Desmond, and disappears into the bathroom, and the swish and gurgle of foaming hot and babbling cold water indicates the conclusion of a Swedish massage.

  Sir Desmond rises, and he certainly is not much of a sight when he reaches for his spectacles, wrapped up in the blanket like a Turk, and waddles towards the bathroom.

  The masseur, pulling his shirt-sleeves down, says: “Klockan 6 i morgon?”

  And Sir Desmond replies: “Ja. Bet ar alt.”

  Whereupon the Swedish Masseur, who no doubt has a name starting with Axel, disappears in a cloud of servility.

  A personal maid—shining black satin dress, no bosom and no personal charm—appears and says to Lamenta, who stands before the mirror in a very beautiful and romantic tea-gown: “The master is ready to see you at once, my lady.”

  And the very beautiful face in the mirror nods: “Yes.”

  And a painful expression creeps over the face of Lamenta—excuse me, Lady Castle.

  And the maid disappears.

  Lamenta quickly picks up a letter from her dressing-table, looks at the door, very scared and nervous. Glances over those two pages again, and then quickly throws the letter into the fireplace. A little thin flame springs up and rises as if in fury, eats up the paper, and up goes the flame—to die down quickly.

  “La-la-la-la! Lo-lo-lo-lo!” And with this happy tune on his lips, out comes Sir Desmond and enters his bedroom.

  “Lamenta!”

  “I won’t lie down under that! I won’t put up with it! No, not me! Not Shark, not Timothy Shark. Huh!” he sighs, and sits heavily down on one of Mr. Kraut’s collapsible stools. “Just walks out on us—Miss Viva Naldi. Hah! That means the sack, my little pet. You sweet.”

  “Don’t you call her any names, please,” says Mr. Kraut quickly. Sullivan Kraut, who has quietly sat through the whole of Shark’s outburst on a tiny little gold chair in a corner of the bare stage, armoured with overcoat, bowler hat, high shoes, moustache turned-up in pre-war fashion, and slightly soiled gloves.

  “Call her names?” says Shark, “are you surprised? Do you wonder?”

  “Just don’t call her any names,” says Kraut, soft but firm, scratching his calf with one foot, chimpanzee-like.

  “What can I do?” says Shark. “I can’t come out to-night—‘Ladies and Gentlemen, half of the show is missing, I beg your pardon——’ ”

  “That you can’t do,” says Sullivan Kraut, heavily contemplating. “That wouldn’t do, Shark. You can’t come out.”

  “What do you mean?” says Shark, lowering his voice in that certain dangerous way.

  “It just won’t do,” says Kraut. “What we have to do is to get a new number.”

  “Get a new number!” laughs Shark. “Just go down the promenade and get one, eh? What do you mean—huh? Get a new number?”

  At this very moment a high-pitched, disgustingly dry and stubborn voice is heard from the Green Room. It’s all wrong, but it’s supposed to be ‘Some Day I’ll Find You.’

  Shark starts scratching his head, and remarks quietly: “She never will. It’s futile. It’s no good. Do you know, Kraut, Ritornelli has been rehearsing with that girl, Amy, for the last four hours?”

&nbs
p; “Oh,” says Kraut, quite innocent and surprised, “I haven’t heard a sound so far.”

  “Anyway, they were rehearsing,” says Shark, annoyed, whereupon Kraut goes into some sort of masculine “Ho-ho-ho-ho!” bellow, and almost in tears, he sighs: “Ritornelli . . . good old Ritornelli. . . .”

  Suddenly he stops, slaps his short-fingered hands, and says: “Shark, I have it. That”—and he points at the Green Room—“will never do. She can’t sing. She has no voice. When I think”—and he gets quite sentimental—“when I think of Miss Naldi, dear Miss Naldi—no, Shark, this Miss will never do. But I shall help you out!”

  “Are you going to sing?” sneers Shark. “German opera, what?”

  “Quite,” says Kraut, obviously not noticing Shark’s sneer. “You know, Shark, I used to do many things——”

  “Which you weren’t supposed to do?” finishes Shark.

  “No,” says Kraut. “I used to do with my Mother and Father a Bavarian singing and dancing act back in 1920. You know, before the hay fever and the rheumatism got me. I couldn’t do the dancing any more then, but if you can dig up a Tyrolean costume in Brighton, I could get myself—just for Miss Naldi’s sake—to do a fill-in. Believe me, I could, Shark.”

  And quickly he takes off his overcoat, and goes, heavy-footed, into a startlingly barbaric dance, clapping his knees and his behind violently, making extra loud sounds like “Youh—a—youh—a—huh!”

  Shark turns up his coat-collar to drown face, nose and laughter, and Kraut claps and doodles like anything.

  Coco suddenly appears, and pitifully lowering his voice he says: “Poor Mr. Kraut. Now it’s got him too.” And, whispering to Shark: “Shall I call a doctor? It was the same with my uncle. He-he!” He bursts into laughter, and the little Wizard goes into fits of barking, trying to snap at Mr. Kraut’s toes and trousers.

  Mr. Sullivan Kraut goes once more into a startling, high-pitched “Youh-huh-youh!” and then sits heavily down on Mr. Shark’s lap.

  “Quite dizzy,” he says smilingly. “I’m not used to it any more.” And again he explains: “Quite dizzy. Hoop! I am sorry, Mr. Shark.”

  “Kraut,” says Shark, “this is a wow! Can you really—I mean to say, do you really want to do this to-night?”

  “Why not?” says Kraut. “A pleasure, a pleasure, Mr. Shark. It’s just that I want to help out poor Miss Naldi.” Lowering his voice, he adds: “But don’t you call her any names, Mr. Shark . . . poor Miss Naldi.”

  “Of course not, Mr. Kraut,” says Shark. “How could I?”

  “You know,” says Kraut, “we Germans are rather touchy about that sort of thing. It’s here,” he says, pointing to his heart, “and here”—hitting his chest and showing the biceps of his left arm—“here. It’s just a matter of opinion, you know.”

  “Mr. Kraut feeling better?” says Coco.

  “Fool,” says Kraut, brushing him aside. And to Shark: “And don’t you forget to get me a little hat with a long green feather, Mr. Stage Manager.” And again he starts boisterously: “Youh-huh-youh!”

  Behold Mr. Sullivan Kraut’s spiritual and bodily rejuvenation brought about by his sudden return to the invigorating yodelling and gland-strengthening native dances of the brawny Bavarian mountain-dwellers! Youh-huh-youh—Yoo-hoo!

  Take any ordinary cubby-hole: take a little saw, and cut a dome-shaped window in the door. Now turn the light on, put in two or three telephones, or just as many as you like. Have them ringing all the time. Then put in a rather shortish man in a dinner-jacket; have his hair slightly parted and quite greasy; and put a few envelopes in front of him. Have a sign: “Sold Out” at hand. Let him pay no attention to the telephones, but let him talk to a man who might be his brother-in-law or nephew or cousin, or what you will. Add it all up and the sum is a box-office. . . .

  So the cuckoo in the clock says to his brother-in-law: “. . . so I say to her: ‘you liked the place, Isobel, when we moved in five months ago!’ No, sold out. So, what was I saying? Yes, so I said to my wife: ‘five months ago you liked it.’ No, sold out, nothing for to-night. ‘And now you complain about ghosts—ghosts, if you please!’ Sold out, nothing for to-night. So she says: ‘Hell! I told you we were sold out!’ What was I saying? Yes, she complained about hearing strange noises when I went in the bathroom. ‘Oscar,’ she shouts, ‘did you hear that noise?’ Sold out. Not a single ticket for to-night. Yes, Sir Desmond Castle is conducting. No, he has not been taken ill. What was I saying? ‘Haunted,’ she says. She just says it’s a haunted house. ‘Rubbish,’ I say, ‘ghosts in a house in Acacia Avenue, St. John’s Wood, N.W.?’ Sold out. No, not even you can get a ticket and don’t shout at me.”

  And the brother-in-law: “Ce sont des noives, Oscar.”

  “What was I saying?” says Oscar. “Yes, nerves. Oh, so I made up my mind to send her to Brighton.”

  “Yes,” says the brother-in-law, “if you start seeing ghosts, Brighton is the best watering-place there is. The other one is ringing.”

  “Never mind,” says Oscar. “I know them all by sound. What was I saying? Yes, Brighton is the best watering-place we have in England.”

  “The wind—I don’t like it,” says the brother-in-law. “You know the wind. Number two is ringing, Oscar, like anything.”

  Whereupon Oscar picks up the receiver and shouts “Hallo!” so loudly that the subscriber at the other end probably collapsed, killed by sound.

  “That did it,” says Oscar. “Here you are! No, there’s nothing for you. I don’t have to look, there’s nothing for you. I know you have been a friend of Sir Desmond Castle for the last two seasons, but there is no complimentary ticket for you. You can look for yourself. Yes, they’re playing Julian Spencer’s ‘Symphony of a Dream.’ All right. It doesn’t matter. It’s called ‘Dream of London,’ but there is no ticket for you. What was I saying?”

  “The best watering-place,” hastens the brother-in-law.

  “Watering-place,” repeats Oscar, obviously blank-minded for the moment. “Yes, it’s the wind. That’s why I don’t like it, either. But I don’t go home to Brighton. No, there’s no ticket reserved. Blast it! Ringing again!” And he picks up the receiver: “What do you want?”

  “Gordon Partridge,” says the young man on the telephone, tail-coat cut very much en taille, with sweet little padded shoulders; not to forget the exquisite teeny-weeny little gardenia in his buttonhole. . . . “Now leave me alone, Ronald, don’t do that! I’m telephoning, my dear. . . . Two tickets. Partridge is my name. Oh, they are there. . . . Now look what you’ve done, Ronald, it’s gone all over my trousers! Take the glass. . . .”

  “What was I saying? His name, for a change,”—pointing to the telephone—“was Partridge. I tell you the whole Zoo is coming to-night. As a matter of fact, I never heard of this Julian Spencer, and he seems to be the great draw. But to go back, what was I saying?”

  “I can’t remember,” says the brother-in-law, by now quietly and completely stupefied.

  “Oh, yes,” says Oscar, “I said I couldn’t stand the wind. . . . Good-evening, Sir Frank, Yes, of course, as usual. May I introduce my brother-in-law, Sir Frank? I told you about him. And how is Lady Lippman?”

  Whereupon the eel-faced Sir Frank Lippman smiles benevolently through his spectacles—and what spectacles! Horn-rimmed, the lenses divided in the middle, as he is short and long-sighted at the same time. He has lived in India for years. But still with a German accent: “Not quite so vell. I have a terrible headache here.”

  The first signal cuts short the conversation, and Sir Frank Lippman, with his gay little felt hat, spectacles, and white bow tie, leaves with a stupid smile.

  “He is a darling,” says Oscar.

  “He looks a pet,” says the brother-in-law.

  “Two tickets,” says the chauffeur with a hiccough, “for Mrs. Reid . . . oup! Did you ever have a Blue Blazer? That’s what she gave me . . . oup! What a woman! Yes, Mrs. Reid.”

  Sudden silence and deep darkness again. And on
ly a tiny shaft of light through the closed shutter; but enough to paint shadows on the wall.

  Julian and his Brother. And Julian’s shadow moves, and he is restless and nervous, and the room seems to be filled with the sounds of all the instruments tuning up. Those shrill and persistent wind instruments. Instruments in the D.B.C. Orchestra. And they get louder and louder as time goes on. Mind you, in twenty or twenty-five minutes or so, they’re going to start, maybe sooner. Sir Frank Lippman is probably already seated, or maybe he is standing up, watching the people coming in. Some of them are early, and some of them are late and come in hiccoughing loudly, and Sir Frank, this music-lover, probably greets and bows here and there with a maraschino-like smile. And he probably holds his little felt hat in his hand, and his overcoat is rolled up and under his seat, as even sixpence is an unnecessary expense for people with money.

  And the orchestra is tuning up, and Julian is still not dressed, but sits with his Brother in the attic. And he says: “Do let me go. It’s late.”

  And the Brother says, faintly: “Just stay a little while, Brother Julian.”

  “Why don’t you sleep?” says Julian. “Why don’t you sleep?”

  “You haven’t finished, Brother Julian. To-night.”

  “Yes,” says Julian, “there’ll be hundreds of people and they’ll all sit and listen. . . .”

  “All the queens and kings and princesses?”

  “Why,” says Julian, startled, “of course not. Just people, ordinary people. All sorts of people—doctors, scientists, bankers, critics. And women. . . .”

  “Oh, Julian,” says the Brother sleepily, “I don’t understand. Mother never said there were any other people than kings and queens. I must be very tired . . . I don’t understand.”