GS Marlowe - I Am Your Brother

by (epub)

  “How dare you?” And after a pause, it is very silent in the room: “What do you want?” And quite suddenly shouting: “What do you want?” And a sharp turn towards Julian: “Julian, what is this all about?” And shouting again: “Julian! Say something, do you hear me?” And suddenly waves of laughter, high-pitched gurgling laughter, cascade of thunderous laughter, hysterical, and you can’t stop it. And he is all twisted up, almost breaking down under this hideous laughter. But unexpectedly it ceases, and everybody is as frightened as hell, as there is a terrific sound from upstairs, and the lamp on the ceiling swings, and it’s like the sound of hundreds of mirrors, broken, smashed, thrown to pieces: the heavy sound of a falling mass. And then silence again. And everybody’s face is filled with fright, and Lamenta quickly rushes out, and down the stairs, and the door is banged, and Julian and Viva stand as if fixed to the dirty floor of Mrs. Spencer’s living-room. The call of The Brother. The Brother. The Brother. . . .

  Ace of spades, eight of diamonds, two of hearts, three of hearts.

  “But she’s not going to stay with him. Maybe just for the moment.”

  Four of clubs, ace of hearts, queen of hearts, six of spades.

  “Sooner than you expected and”—quite wistfully—“there’s a marriage quite soon.”

  “That’s right,” says Kraut, who leans back very satisfied, as if just after a hearty meal.

  “Shall we try with the crystal?” asks the woman who is dressed like a gypsy. She is fat, greasy, and seems to be one enormous bosom from here to there. And it’s all very cheap and filthy and it’s probably in Brighton, where holiday-seekers go in for this sort of superstitious bunk.

  Kraut quickly looks at the price-list fixed on the wall. Some hideous wallpaper—pansies and birds of paradise—them glorious ’eighties—and sees that crystal-gazing sets you back ninepence. That’s O.K. with Kraut, so he says heartily: “Fire ahead then, and make it worth ninepence. What does she look like?”

  “Rather tall,” says the woman, gazing at her begrimed finger-nails, “on the fair side.”

  “Right,” says Kraut, and the woman, encouraged, seems about to rub her nose on the crystal, but suddenly she lifts her head quickly, closing her eyes like a dying chicken, and faintly: “I can see something terrible!”

  Kraut jumps up. “What do you see?”

  “Oh, it’s something terrible,” repeats the woman, and she seems ready to faint.

  “Nothing about Viva? The girl?”

  “It has something to do with her,” sighs the woman.

  “What is it?” implores Kraut.

  “I can’t,” says the old gypsy, getting up. “I can’t any more.”

  Kraut is persistent. “It hasn’t anything to do with her and me, has it?”

  “I can’t,” says the woman, “I’m sorry. Mister. I won’t charge you anything extra for the crystal.”

  Kraut puts a shilling on the table. Open bribery. Threepence more than the usual fee. “Out with it!” says Kraut.

  “No,” says the woman, walking heavily up and down, holding her head as if in pain. “It may and it may not.”

  “Is it a man?” asks Kraut.

  “Much worse than that,” replies the woman. “Something you can’t put your finger on.” And suddenly she bursts into tears, big, heavy, old-fashioned tears.

  “Woman,” says Kraut, becoming very angry. “You simply must tell me, stop crying!” he shouts. “You can put your finger on everything. Stop crying. It can’t be as bad as all that.”

  “Worse,” sobs the woman. “I’ve never . . .”

  The dark attic. Deep silence. But suddenly a word is spoken. Slowly, faintly. A name. “Viva.” And another word: “Gone.”

  And Julian jumps up furiously. “Why didn’t you sleep? Moving about—it was your fault! You had to get up and start all this noise—don’t you see she’ll never believe me?”

  “But, Julian,” pleads the Brother. “Why don’t you tell her it was only me? Why don’t you say: ‘Viva, it was my brother.’ She would come back to you.”

  “Tell her what?” says Julian. “Tell her you are my brother?”

  “But I am your brother, Julian,” says the monster—that hideous freak, born of sinister scientific curiosity. “It’s all so sudden, Brother Julian, you never mentioned her. I never knew of her. I thought we both were quite alone since Mother left us. I knew there were so many other things, kings, queens and beggars, but you never told me you had anybody apart from me. It’s all so strange and makes me think at night.”

  Julian suddenly stops in his pacing up and down: “Listen. Don’t ever think at night. Do you hear me? Never think, and all I told you isn’t true—it’s just a story—do you understand? It’s like the story Mother used to tell you. Forget the names. There isn’t anything. Nobody. Just you and me.”

  “It can’t be a story,” says the Brother. “I heard voices a little while ago, strange voices I never heard before. And I was so glad. I thought for a moment Mother was back again and all was well!”

  Julian: “Mother will never come back again if she knows you are thinking and not sleeping at night.”

  “I’ll be so good, Brother Julian. I promise I won’t move about. Never again.”

  “Promise?” asks Julian.

  “It’s getting so warm up here,” says the Brother. “And sometimes I feel as if something quite new and strange were slowly happening to me. Something seems to creep up in me and makes me feel so warm in my head. Something seems to grow in me, here and there, and all over. Brother Julian, it was a lovely voice I heard, and in the dark it dawned on me that there was something else I never knew before. Always alone, Brother Julian. And it isn’t food, or you, or Mother, or the stories you used to tell me. It’s something else. What can it be, Brother Julian? I was always alone, Brother Julian, but I was never so aware of it.”

  Silence.

  “Alone. . . . That you should feel that too. This life is exile, and we are condemned to live it out alone, always alone, my Brother. . . .” The warmth in Julian’s voice flows into deep silence again.

  And then the Brother: “Tell me her name again?”

  And Julian, desperately: “Why know her name? I said it was a story—what does it matter?”

  But the Brother is quite determined about it: “I know her name. It’s Viva, and what a lovely voice she has. Only to think of it makes me feel quite different.”

  Julian shouts: “For God’s sake, sleep! It’s all a story—do you hear me? It’s a story.”

  “This is no story, Brother Julian. I know. I know. But you needn’t be afraid, I’ll be very quiet from now on, and I shall think of her and you. Only to think of you and her—her voice and name gives me a feeling, very strange and new indeed. It’s all so very different from now on, my Brother Julian. And now I shall sleep. . . .”

  Julian gets up and walks on tiptoe towards the door. And again he hears the Brother’s voice, quite faintly: “Viva.”

  Rain. Rain splashing down on the pavement, cobblestones, roof-tops. Pouring rain, and whatever is left about in the street floats down the gutters, hopelessly giving up the struggle. Gurgling into dark and dangerously deep drains. It might rain for ever. It is probably six or seven in the evening, as so many people seem to be hurrying home. Taxis. And water spits up right and left in those narrow canyons of Soho. A few little boys go in for paddling, and they shout and giggle, and it’s all very cold and wet and so very hopeless. Rain. And people drenched with rain. And rain and water again. And there, suddenly, is Julian Spencer, and he is nearly knocked over by a fruit-barrow, and the man shouts something, and Julian answers something back, but you can’t hear, as it’s all drowned in wet noise. Farther down there’s a bus stop, and three or four buses roll up, but they don’t stop as they are jammed with people. And the conductor shows with his hand there is nothing doing, but Julian somehow succeeds and he jumps on to the platform, so what can the conductor do? Mud. Rain. Hopelessly bare lamp-posts, and over there a
taxi-stand. Six in a row. If they would all start moving at once one could easily think it was the funeral of a dead day. This sort of weather gives one thoughts like that.

  “Steady—a minute please! Little bit to the left—Oh, no, just the head. Was sag ich? The face, I mean, do you follow me? That’s goot, that’s right, that’s delicious, grossartig! Ven I say ‘tree’ you must be quite still. So. . . . Excuse me a moment. The shpot-light. Ah! That’s better. That’s goot. Mr. Kraut—chest out, plees—one foot forward—look up, little girl—look up at him—look, look! Hold it!”

  Click, says the camera, humble, stupid and very modest.

  “Good,” says Kraut, heartily, and steps off the platform. He’s dressed up in yodel outfit and—what a surprise—Viva, too, is dressed like a female yodeller and Bavarian mountain-climber. That heart-refreshing German peasant type, buxom, wholesome, blessed with eternal pregnancy. Viva has a little hat with a feather, and a decent but gorgeous décolletage framed by a black velvet tight-fitting bodice. Little white lace all over the place. Heavy brass chain—gallant gift of mountain sweetheart to village beauty—sparkling dimly about her alabaster neck. Oh, boy, oh, boy, what a sight!

  Then let’s take a good quick look at Kraut’s bare knees and chest, and arms, and little hat, and the victoriously turned-up moustachio, and forget our troubles.

  “Now,” says the photographer, “perhaps I may make another quick shot? You know, Mr. Kraut—Sie halten sie um die Tallie—so! You see, Mr. Kraut, high up, like this.” And the photographer, Mr. Augsburger, with stock-tie, grey hairs, tired dandruff over collar and lapel of his greasy velveteen coat, puts his arms around Viva’s waist, trying to lift her up—an absolutely hopeless undertaking.

  “Ich verstehe,” says Mr. Kraut. “Vill this do?” And he swings Viva up like a feather. “This is a very becoming and comfortable position,” he adds. “How’s that, Viva?”

  “Sully, don’t drop me,” she squeals, and it’s all very coy and common.

  “Ha! Ha!” shouts Kraut, and the photographer shakes his head benevolently: “What a pair! Süss. Charming.”

  But he rushes towards the camera and disappears under his dark cover. “I must change the shpot-light,” he says to himself. “Hold it, Mr. Kraut. Can you manage? I don’t like this,” he says, shifting about his very elaborate old-fashioned lamps. “I don’t like that shpot. I will shift—hold it—damn, it’s the other one—smile, Miss—look at him lovingly——”

  “Aren’t you ready?” asks Kraut, rather annoyed, as he is getting very tired of waiting for Mr. Augsburger’s shpot-light effect.

  “One, two—and——”

  Rain. Buses. Trams. And in the background a bridge. Very few lights. And there’s a bus stop with quite a few people waiting, and a bus rolls along, and Julian jumps out and disappears in the crowd. It’s still raining. And the wind has sprung up.

  “The bell’s ringing. Mother, Mother, the bell is ringing!”

  “What do you want?” asks the woman standing at the half-open window, looking down into the street. “Who do you want?” The woman is not very pleased with this visitor, as she has just put her hair in paper curlers and doesn’t want to be bothered to go down.

  “Miss Naldi,” replies Julian, and he is very nervous and his overcoat collar is turned up, and he has quite some trouble preventing his hat from flying off his head.

  “I don’t think she’s in,” shouts back the woman. “But Miss Williams is in. Second floor, first door on the left. You know which it is.”

  Miss Williams, this half-dressed middle-aged woman—light hair, plenty of powder and rouge on her coarse features—is sitting on the edge of a very primitive iron bedstead. She is blowsy and puffed-up and no doubt an old trouper, good-natured as long as it doesn’t interfere with her privacy and personal comfort. She slips on one stocking. “Damn it,” she says, as a ladder runs gaily down from knee to ankle. She licks her forefinger and tries to prevent further disaster. “Come in,” she shouts. “Who is it?”

  Julian Spencer appears on the threshold, hat and overcoat soaked with rain. Rain dripping on to the floor.

  “If it isn’t Mr. Spencer!” says Miss Williams, quickly arranging the strap of her brassière under her flower-laden kimono. “What’s up, Mr. Spencer? Quite a stranger. I read all about you in the papers. Viva isn’t in. She’s gone out to have her picture taken. You should have seen her. He gave her a costume which belonged to his mother. Oh, you should have seen her, Mr. Spencer. Nothing wrong?” she says, rather concerned. “Won’t you sit down?”

  “Thank you,” says Julian. But he doesn’t move an inch. “Listen, Miss Williams,” he says, after a long pause. “Of course you know what happened? I just came to explain. . . .”

  “Oh?” says Miss Williams, with very hollow and faked surprise.

  “You know, it came all so suddenly,” continues Spencer, and he strokes his forehead. “I really can’t remember any more what it really was. . . .”

  But this is a cue for Miss Williams, and she seems to know all about that other woman who was there, and about the queer goings-on in that house. Noises and so on. “Oh, I could tell you, Mr. Spencer——”

  Julian interrupts her: “What did she say?” he asks.

  “Oh, nothing,” says Miss Williams, regarding her gaily decorated bedroom slippers with interest. “She just said it was all over and she really didn’t care to go on with it. You know, Mr. Spencer. Fed up with the whole thing. And you. I personally really don’t blame her. The girl did her best. Believe me, Mr. Spencer, she worried and worried. . . . And Mr. Kraut, of course. He is attentive, and what I think is so important, he has a great deal of common sense, and real affection, and——”

  Julian interrupts her, and again says very quietly: “You mean to say Kraut—and Viva—I mean—Viva is——”

  “Peggy!” shouts Viva, bursting into the room. “We’ve had such fun.” But suddenly she sees Julian, and stops at once and is quite silent and very self-conscious.

  “I’m sorry, Viva,” says Julian. “I only came . . . you know . . .”

  But Viva has regained her self-possession and, sharp and cold and detached, she says: “You could have saved yourself this trip. I’ve thought it over, and it’s all ended between us. I’m not going to put up with you any longer. You just do whatever you want to do and I shall do the same. You might as well go now. And don’t ever write to me, or telephone—it’s all off.”

  “She’s quite right,” says Miss Williams, “you might be a great artist one day, Mr. Spencer, but what’s too much is too much, and I won’t have anybody hurting little Viva’s feelings.”

  “Never mind,” says Viva, “I can talk for myself. And besides I have nothing to say. Good-bye.”

  “Viva,” says Julian, and he really seems ready to faint any minute.

  “What are you going to tell me now?” asks Viva. “You talked and talked and talked, and little promises right and left—wife, house, marriage, children. And I believed you. I waited. I was ready to give up my own career.”

  “That’s quite right,” says Miss Williams. “That’s what she told me.”

  And Viva goes on talking. “I was ready to wait for you, but the moment you had a success, of course, little Viva isn’t good enough for you any more. If you had really meant it, Julian,” she says.

  “Viva. Listen to me. I do, I do mean it, I swear. To-morrow, if you want me to. To-morrow. . . .”

  Viva is moved, and she looks on the floor, and she and Miss Williams, they both look, at the same pair of gaily-decorated slippers, and Miss Williams even wipes a handsome tear out of her big eyes with her finger.

  Julian moves closer to Viva, and he pulls her head up, and he throws his arms around her, and she looks at him, deeply and intensely, and . . .

  “I am so glad,” says the Brother full of real emotion, “I am so glad, Brother Julian.”

  “Yes,” says Julian, “I never thought—I never thought it could all be all right again. But she—s
he is different. Of course, she does—she would—understand. Oh, I knew it, I knew it all the time.”

  “So she is coming back?” asks the Brother. “To-day, or to-morrow?”

  “Of course, of course,” says Julian. “Any day.”

  “You don’t think she might change her mind?” says the Brother. “Suddenly, unexpectedly?”

  “Oh, no,” says Julian, laughing. “Viva never changes her mind.”

  “You’re very sure,” says the Brother.

  “I must go now,” says Julian. “I feel it coming on, I’ve felt it all the time. Oh, how I feel it! Up and down my spine. It will be marvellous—for big orchestra—everything in it. Yes. . . . No. . . . Yes. And one solo voice. Now I even know the words—I shall write the words myself.” And he leaves the attic hurriedly.

  The dark attic. A speck of light coming through the closed shutters. Quiet and peaceful. And suddenly from downstairs through the ceiling—the floor—a beautiful tune, loud and full of joy, full of hope, growing louder and fuller all the time. But up here darkness, and no time of the year. Only the shuffle of the hideous feet of the Brother, who disappears into his favourite corner. And, curled up, lies quietly listening to the beautiful tune conceived by his brother.

  Extra loud. . . . “My dear, the most marvellous glasses, and only four bob a dozen! Beautiful! Absolutely modern—oh, I simply must show them to you.”

  “Let’s see,” says Miss Williams, very soberly, “when you come home. Or are you going to leave them here?”