GS Marlowe - I Am Your Brother

by (epub)

  Applause. Waves of applause.

  “Viva!”

  “Julian!”

  But the applause still goes on, and so Julian almost has to push Viva out of the way, as he must go back again to acknowledge the tumultuous clapping, and he staggers through the applauding musicians past all the little first violins—“Splendid,” hisses Mr. Schafitz. “We hit it off, Mr. Spencer! My wife——” up to the conductor’s stand. But suddenly he stands in the dark. Only a second, but enough to let Julian see that an enthusiastic audience sometimes has luminous, phosphorescent eyes like cats—alley-cats, stray-cats, tom-cats, pussy-cats; sitting in the dark, meeiawing in the dark. Cat’s calls, full of admiration. Emotional cat-calls—meeiaow! Only a second, and there he stands and bows, and bows again. And finally he makes the applauding orchestra get up. And shouts from the gallery: “Spencer! Spencer!”

  “Magnificent, my dear,” says the musical society cockatoo, powdering her beak. “Even Desmond thinks he’s a genius.”

  “I’m quite carried away,” says the one who looks like a goldfish, “I shall invite him to a fork luncheon. Aline, you’ll come? What about next Thursday?”

  “Very kind of you—have you a pencil?”

  “I’m shattered, my dear,” says one of the Magdalen babies, as they walk up the aisle.

  “He’s rather a darling, isn’t he?” says another, scratching an emotional rash. Weak-kneed they paddle along towards the Gents’ Room—that Oxford hustle.

  Spectacled faces. Puffed-up faces. Thin and haggard faces. Faces, faces, all over the place. And they all say the same: “Marvellous, Mr. Spencer.” “Let me congratulate you.” “It’s a knock-out!” And this is the face of Mr. Schafitz again: “Oh, I want you to meet Mr. Spencer, Rosie,” and there is suddenly a female with a hat of no style, who shows a few teeth, quite short and far apart, and a greasy smile, and she says: “My husband has——” but she is interrupted in her goose-fatty compliment, for the man with splotched glasses from the gallery turns out to be a critic, and he introduces himself: “Korwitz, my name, from The Daily Sentiment. Just a few facts about yourself.” And he yanks notebook and pencil out of his pocket: “Born in London, 0019,” and explaining, he adds: “That’s just a little private code I have with myself—he-he! Means 1900. Very clever, what, Mr. Spencer?” And he lowers his voice: “Mother dead? And of course you have brothers? Or at least you have one. What do you say, Mr. Spencer? Maybe you can tell me something about him? That might make a marvellous story for the Sunday edition. Sensation—that’s an extra ten shillings for me—maybe a picture of you and him? Colossal!”

  But he, too, is interrupted by a sudden flare of light.

  “Hold it!” shouts the news-photographer, and another flare of light. . . . “Thank you, thank you.”

  “Come on, Julian,” says Viva.

  “Mrs. Spencer?” asks the news-hunter, and turning to the photo­grapher: “Let’s have a separate shot of them both.”

  Whissht! And there’s another picture.

  “Thank you,” says Viva, very coy.

  “You know we’re not married yet,” says Julian nervously.

  In a subdued voice the reporter observes: “I hope there’s nothing illegal about it? Because most of our readers are respectable church-going people. Of course they like sensations—cannibals, strange animals, bring ’em back alive. . . .”

  “Oh, no,” says Viva, “we’re going to get married shortly.” And she is quite sure of it.

  The reporter has practically the whole article on his pad. “Mr. Spencer,” he says, “how’s this? Glorious evening, thousands of people, cheers, and so on and so forth. And now Mr. Spencer, a man of thirty-four, who loves his mother, a gentlewoman, dearly, and who spent all his time quietly composing at the piano, when he wasn’t busy taking care of his baby brother. Now I go into the usual blah-blah. And then I thought I might put in something about . . . now here: not only is young Julian Spencer an unusual character, but his brother is also interesting.”

  “Listen,” says Julian, “I have no brother. Cut that out!”

  “But you see, without your brother,” says the reporter, “the whole story doesn’t make sense, and every story has to have sense, doesn’t it, Mr. Spencer? Gruesome though it may be.”

  “Come on, Viva,” says Julian. “Come on, Viva.” And nervously he pulls her away.

  They stand in the street and the wind is blowing like hell. And there are some more newly-acquired admirers: boys of uncertain age and girls worked up to a pitch—it’s not only the music and talent, but the appearance and sex appeal—look at him!

  “Would you sign my book, please?” says a girl of about fourteen, in a very soapy way.

  “Mine, too,” shouts a boy who probably collects autographs in order to sell them again.

  “Taxi!” shouts Viva, but Julian pulls down her hand.

  “We can walk, Viva.”

  “Oh, no, we can’t,” says Viva, quite annoyed. “They’re all looking. Come on, Julian.”

  “Back to Greek Street?” asks the driver.

  “Of course,” says Julian, rather surprised. “How do you know?”

  “Just another coincidence,”’ says the driver, laughing. “I know you, Mr. Spencer. Your score,” he adds, handing Julian the music he left in the cab.

  “Of course, everybody knows you. The papers will be full to-morrow morning. Yes, driver, Greek Street,” Viva says, very lady-like, now possessing driver and taxi, too. “Phew!” And she sinks back with a sigh of relief.

  “You’re tired, darling,” says Julian, quietly.

  “Oh, no. But it’s all so exciting. Though, of course, Julian, I always knew it. Ha!” She claps her hands in delight. “Imagine Shark and Ritornelli! How angry they’ll be!”

  “M-m,” agrees Julian absent-mindedly, for those two characters are far from his mind at the moment.

  “And do you know?” she babbles on, “Amy said only yesterday you would never be successful. A dreamer, she called you. ‘Just all up in his head,’ she said. And do you know why?”

  “No,” says Julian, and that’s all he has to contribute to this discussion.

  “Don’t you remember, Julian? How she tried and tried to get off with . . . oop! What’s the matter?”

  They are both thrown violently across the floor of the taxi, as the driver puts on his brake with a sudden jerk. There’s nobody in the street though; no man, woman, dog, cat or paralysed chicken. Yet the driver jumps down from his seat and rushes to the door, opens it, and says breathlessly: “Did you see it? Terrible! I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “What?” asks Viva, frightened, but ready for a cheap sensation like those girls always are.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” replies the driver.

  “What was it?” says Julian, abruptly, nervously. “What did it look like?”

  “Coo, I’ve never seen anything like it. It had—oh, I don’t know. Like a tail . . . and a big head . . . oh, I’ve never seen anything like it, Mister. I thought I had run over it. It was a real monster, Miss.”

  “You’ve been drinking,” says Julian.

  “What of it?” says the man, quite excited. “And it’s nothing new to you, sir. Didn’t we have quite a few drinks a few hours ago? You yourself . . .”

  “What’s that?” asks Viva, pricking up her ears.

  “Nothing, Miss, but I know what I’m talking about. I don’t see things when I drive. I am quite clear up here.” And he taps his forehead that is covered with cold perspiration.

  “Drive on!” shouts Julian, but he, too, feels scared as hell.

  The driver shakes his head, slams the door, and slowly starts the motor, and off they go again down the street.

  Street. Asphalt. Glittering, shimmering. Asphalt. It has probably been raining. A street by itself. Something cut in between two pavements. Black, glittering asphalt. And suddenly two mice, both dressed in little skirts and blouses, and nicely cut aprons: Mother Mouse, Baby Mouse. Little ears,
eyes, snout, moustachio—oh, so complete. Mother Mouse holds Baby Mouse and they swing about like mad on the pavement. Suddenly up swings the little brat in the mother’s arms, and then—ooop! stop. . . . A toy designed for children and the man who bends down now, aggressive little key in his hand, has obviously not sold many of them. He’s quite old, very weather-beaten, unshaven for years, and overcoat pockets torn and frayed. And he stands on the corner of Regent and Oxford Street, and quite a few people pass by and cross the street hurriedly.

  “Julian . . .”

  “Viva dear, I understand. Of course you didn’t know where I was, or what I was up to when I suddenly disappeared. It seems years and years ago. Oh, darling, it’s like an awful dream!”

  Now there are little dogs, little Aberdeens, and they run around in circles, moving their little forelegs like one o’clock. What speed! Real Aberdeens are usually asthmatic and walk very slowly, head and body swaying from left to right and right to left, and they have so much time. But these mechanical toys always accentuate something that doesn’t exist. And the man treads from one foot on to the other, as it’s very cold. And dark, and night, and Regent Street. And two women with plucked eyebrows and white faces and muscular legs and dainty little shoes walk by professionally. And a man slides along: rather well-to-do, with top-hat and gloves, probably a swell German refugee. And they are after him.

  “You know, my dear, what I’m going to do to-morrow? I shall go to Prince and Prince. I’m sure they have lots of sweet little flats. We don’t want much, do we? Three or four rooms and a kitchen. . . .”

  “Yes, dear,” says Julian, rather absent-mindedly.

  And Viva, very determined: “Because you’ll make some money now, dear, won’t you?”

  Pubs. Restaurants. Some of them closed, as law is always at work. Little lights, and a rope so that nobody can come to a sudden end in a hole flanked by piled up cobble-stones. Danger. And the light shines smilingly over another man at work, and another “Drive Slowly.” And a few unemployed night-birds stand and watch, as they have nothing to do and life is dangerous anyway, and . . .

  “Of course we will, Viva. It will make things so much easier. You’ll see to-morrow—Bosworth himself has already mentioned two possibilities with the D.B.C. And I might write the music for a film. Oh, Viva dear, it’s all too much.”

  “Darling, kiss me. . . .”

  Pubs. Restaurants. Commissionaires in livery. Bourne and Hollingsworth’s. No lights. Little hats on metal stems growing out of the dark. The faint reflection of street lamps and sky-signs. MEUX IS GOOD FOR YOU. Sandeman’s Port. And dresses, beautifully draped, lounge lazily through the night. A few more ladies of very little distinction, but oh, so sinister and hidden profession. And a few more little swinging mice, and Aberdeens running like mad, and two boys: “Evening Standard! Star Final! Star Final!” Wide open mouths and faint sounds, as it is cold and people in taxis have their windows closed.

  Julian’s voice: “But what did you say? Did you tell him?”

  “Of course, darling. I told him that it was all off. Oh, I told him everything. Of course Shark wouldn’t believe it when I told him about marriage.”

  “Oh, didn’t he?”

  “He said that you were very irresponsible and not really sincere, and very queer altogether, and he asked me about your family. Are you asleep, dear?”

  “Of course not, darling. I heard every word you said.”

  Dark Soho Square. Trees silhouetted against a faint sky. QUIET, it says on a sign, and it turns out to be a hospital for women.

  “Darling, I love you, and I shall never leave you, and we’ll always stay together.”

  Joseph’s Restaurant. Serbian and Hungarian Dishes. A barrel-organ. And the man who played it a minute ago talks to a very fat and greasy woman, and the woman wipes her nose with her short-fingered hand, and it’s all stale lust and filth, and she has sagging breasts, and two cats slink by, male, female, pussy-cats. Puss, puss, puss, puss, pussy! And the man laughs boisterously.

  “Oh, darling, my sweet. Viva, why did you leave me? Viva, I want you, my darling. Viva, Viva, Viva! But Viva, you’re so beautiful. Oh, darling, darling . . .”

  “No, Julian, don’t . . . the mirror . . . he can see us . . . you really shouldn’t, dear. . . .”

  The driver slows down. Has he seen No. 11? No, my good man, you are wrong, that was 17, so this is 16, 15. Two other black cats playing about—wow! 14, 12, 12a—people are superstitious, aren’t they?—and a whole family of Italiani is sitting on the pavement and the madonna mia talks like a waterfall.

  11. No. 11, and here he stops, turns round, and sees that his passengers are still quite tangled up in unmistakable and frenzied passion. So he steps down, shakes his head twice, and lights the lamentable residue of a cigar. Hefty puffs from the cigarillo—we are in Soho. That strange and muddled district of London. Puffs, puffs. Them spooners are still hard at it. There isn’t much for him to do, so he takes a few little steps down the street, warming his body with a few physical jerks, looks back to the car—they must have gone to sleep. Ah, now, company is appreciated, and he advances towards that very elaborate shiny car; glittering lamps, little mirrors, windscreen, coupé, saloon, sedan, chromium bonnet, streamline, body-line, synchro-mesh, mesh-synchro—what a car, what a car!

  “French car?” he says, and the liveried chauffeur wakes up, stretching, yawning, and answers with a sigh: “Delage.”

  “Quite a sight,” says the taxi-driver.

  “Quite,” says the chauffeur, and is very silent and aristocratic.

  “Quite a sight,” says the driver again, who can’t think of anything more to say. “Awful job, this parking in London,” he continues at last, “awful job to park a car.”

  “Right,” says the chauffeur for a change, and looks still more superior.

  “Anyway,” says the driver, “you won’t have to wait long. They all close down here pretty early. It’s all changed since those laws were passed.”

  “M-m,” says the chauffeur.

  It’s quite obvious the driver wants to find out what this swell is doing here.

  “Waiting here for somebody?” he asks, summoning his courage.

  Whereupon the chauffeur lights a cigarette and leans back without responding.

  “Them stories one reads in the papers,” continues the driver.

  “Quite,” says the liveried chauffeur, smoking lazily.

  “It’s all made up,” says the driver, not discouraged, “murders, monsters. People are just seeing things, and that’s why I say to my old woman: ‘Give me a good war, or a revolution, something real and good, but no ghosts and monster stories for me.’ ” And after a pause: “Bet you aren’t down this way often, quite a stranger, aren’t you? The people here—oh, they’re just flat broke—you know, sort of artists—they make some money and spend it at once. Fools! No guts. . . .” And quite suddenly: “Excuse me!” And he rushes towards his taxi. “Four and six,” he says with a smile. “It’s just jumped. Thank you very much, sir. Grand evening it’s been.”

  “Look—what a car!” exclaims Viva. “Wish we could have one like that.”

  “Yes, dear,” says Julian, who seems to be very nervous.

  “Good-evening, Mr. Spencer,” says the liveried chauffeur.

  And Viva looks at Julian in surprise. “Everybody seems to know you!” she says.

  Julian, quite loudly, with false heartiness, “Ha ha!” And suddenly: “I was just thinking—I really didn’t have any dinner. We might as well go down and find a coffee-stall. I’m sure there’s one just round the corner. . . .”

  “But, dear,” says Viva, “I thought I might stay with you a little while before I go home. After all, we haven’t been alone together for so long.”

  Julian suddenly has a bright idea. “No, let’s go to the Café de Paris. You know it’s a lovely place, and we might as well do ourselves well for once. I even thought of having a bottle of champagne.”

  But Viva is quite det
ermined. “Oh, Julian, we could go to-morrow. I’m really so tired. Oh, come on, Julian. I really don’t feel like going out. I want to talk about our future plans with you.” And she walks towards the door. “Julian, you left it unlocked,” she says.

  “Oh, did I?”

  “Come on, Julian dear.”

  Can you imagine counters at Woolworth’s literally covered with very expensive jewellery? Gold cigarette cases, silver candlesticks, onyx ash-trays, or even Molyneux dresses, sold in Woolworth’s bargain basement? Answer: no, you can’t. It’s just out of keeping. It just isn’t right. It simply doesn’t fit. Certain people move in certain surroundings. Newspaper-sellers at a banquet in the Savoy: a ridiculous idea. Take a very beautiful and very expensively-dressed woman. Let’s say, Lady Castle. Put her on a shabby, half-broken-down couch. No, but this isn’t funny any more. In fact, it’s very pathetic that this woman sits half asleep on the couch in Spencer’s living-room. But now she wakes up, waiting for Julian. She has obviously heard Julian and his fiancée—after all, nothing seems to have changed in their relations—coming up the stairs. And Viva’s voice can be plainly heard through the closed door. And this is what she says: “This place gives me the creeps. We won’t live here, will we, dear?”

  These words are heard by Lamenta, and she is terribly frightened. And she doesn’t know what to do. She reaches for her wrap and she looks towards the door and towards the window, and there is no other door. And it’s all so terrible, and she probably isn’t used to this sort of thing—what a miserable situation! They’ll be here in a minute and you can hear Julian’s hand, or maybe Viva’s sweet little manicured fingers on the doorknob, and it’s quite easy to open a door—you just turn the handle. Sometimes you don’t get a proper grip on it, so you try again, and twist it around. . . .

  Now: if you open the door leading to Julian Spencer’s sitting-room anyone seated on the couch can’t possibly be seen until you are right inside. So Viva can’t see Lamenta. Besides, you don’t see what you don’t expect to see. But you must admit it is rather funny that Viva should be overcome by emotion on seeing the damned old sitting-room again, and should cry: “Oh, Julian!” And throwing her arms around his neck: “How lovely to be back again!” That’s certainly a terrific situation for Julian, and he only sighs: “Yes, dear.” He doesn’t want to close the door. As if this could help to postpone the débacle. But Viva closes it, and turns around, and looks quickly at Julian and back at Lamenta, who stands before them, and back again at Julian, whose eyes are closed and who sways slightly, as if in a dream: like a sleep-walker in agony because he can’t find his way back to bed or simply a way out. Just imagine.