GS Marlowe - I Am Your Brother

by (epub)

  Houses in groups: all alike—one bad design infinitely repeated.

  And then just country. Hills, trees, little bridges, and shallow ponds. Water-filled mud-holes gazing, dead-eyed, at an early watery sun. A street. A highway. A petrol station offensively placed right on the edge, and the breeched behind of a motor-scout on his bike. And there is a lorry in the distance on another road cutting away from the main road, and a long square box jigging about over bumps and slopes. But right here, happy youngsters on bikes in groups. And an old man drags along his spouse on a shivering tandem.

  Country. Sunday. Sunday in the country. Sunday in the country. It’s all very well, but what about this car, and the box, and Julian, and the Brother?

  A pool. A weir. Water thundering down into the pool. Drops. Millions of drops. Spit in the air. Glittering, spraying, and in the middle of the pool branches, bottles, and odd whatnots whirling around, white foam on the surface. And treacherously whirling, gurgling deep water.

  A sloping bank. Here and there old trees and naked, dew-covered shrubbery and sloping, patchy grass. Upon the bank—the van. And Julian pulls the box down—hell—it’s heavy. It really takes two men to push or pull or carry a box so beautifully made and built, not to forget that monstrously heavy Brother. Now—here—he’s got it—got a grip on it—it’s on the ground now—but it’s quite a stretch—some distance—no—that—that won’t do—and Julian wipes big drops of perspiration from his neck and forehead. Just have another try. . . . Now he drags it down the slope, and grass is torn—torn from the ground. It makes a mess and leaves, no doubt, a trace. . . . Don’t stop—go on. A few more yards—with all your strength. . . . He pushes, pulls, and drags a few more yards. Exhaustedly he stops. And down he goes. Down on his knees. That’s better now. Now only one more heave—ah! And on to the edge. Right here, where water, quick and bubbling—and Julian stops—his hands still on the box. It’s almost done. One more push—no, no, he can’t. It’s after all not very easy to drown a member of your family, good or bad. One doesn’t kill one’s Brother, just like that. . . . So Julian’s hands tenderly stroke the box. Once. Twice. All over. And down he looks, as if his eyes could penetrate that heavy cover. And he looks again, and shivering, he sees the water, weir, and whirlpool. It’s cold and quick—he hates . . . and splash! Don’t look! Don’t look! The box is floating right in the middle. Right in the middle of the river. And suddenly he almost wants to scream. Clenches his fists. He regains his strength. Up fly his arms—up to the skies. And there he stands. All freed, renewed. The box is floating. Still it’s floating. . . . The chains are broken, Julian—the chains which chained you to a dreary past—to long November nights, where smoke and mist drowned you in hopeless agony—Kraut’s stupid strength, and Bellometti’s treacherous bills and questions—and Mother staring at the ceiling—and Viva’s lustful wishes and desires—pawn-shops, cheap restaurants—a certain Mr. Shark’s complaints—and Coco’s idiotic giggle. . . . The box floats towards the middle of the whirlpool, and from the towers of many churches heroic chimes! The sun has risen, and trees are swaying slightly in the wind—it’s spring, you know. And early leaves are pushing out towards the sun. And chimes. A thousand voices, dark, deep, and high melodious ones—men and women, children—glorious moment! It’s all forgotten and the past is gone. The box is floating, hasn’t reached the whirlpool yet. . . . No more Lamenta’s dumbness—Castle’s sneer and lust. . . . Vita Nuova! Life regained, reborn! Farewell, my Brother! Still you live. But the water licks greedily, waiting with wide open mouth, waiting to suck you down to the gravelly bottom. Drowned you will be, and drowned your memory. God rest your soul. And let us pray for the soul of our Brother. . . . The box is still floating. . . . One end submerged.

  Julian sinks to his knees, his body racked by unceasing sobs and tears of anguished joy, his face buried deep in his hands.

  And let us pray for the soul of our departed brother. . . . Julian looks up, and there—no—yes—The Box—it stops, and sinks—comes up again! That’s quite impossible! A heavy box, and many holes drilled into it, so that the water—no—but that’s impossible! It’s soaked with water. Filled with water. But it comes up again, and turns—turns towards the shore. The box comes back to shore! Straight back. . . . Julian gets up and, terrified, he looks—he sees—the box—quite close to shore. And there are pebbles, stones with sharp edges. . . . He quickly runs down to the water and tries to shove the box back into the current. . . . He kicks it hard. . . . The current is too strong . . . the box crashes against the stones and with a bang! falls open wide . . . the Brother’s head and ugly feet. . . .

  It thunders from the weir and gurgles down below and chimes fall in, and hoarse, the Brother’s voice: “You can’t get rid of me! I know you now, my Brother Julian!”

  Cherries on tooth-picks, and little olives, cheese balls, and salted almonds, daintily shaped, and teeny-weeny sausages, very greasy and cold, and dozens of glasses and bottles. Champagne. And lemonade for the tender ones. And two men who look like peers in white coats mix cocktails: Sidecars and Manhattans, and very dry Martinis, and icy White Ladies. And everybody is very chatty, and men come up from the city stand on widespread legs, holding their glasses, talking to pretty women, old trout and chattering young geese.

  Some of the women powder their noses, and some are simply carried away by lustful expectations.

  Most men, however, feel uneasy and that’s why they bury their hands in the deep pockets of their wide-cut trousers. And a few are quite old and hideous, with port-brandy faces and features, soft cucumber-shaped noses, quite limp and flabby, stuck between vein-garnished cheeks. Those are the hearty ones, full of traditions and hidden sinister desires flooded by loud, silly laughter. That Newmarket lot.

  And the hostess—she rushes towards the door: “There you are, my dear . . . they’re all simply dying to meet you!”

  And the butler, who shouted out: “Mr. Julian Spencer!” in an adenoidal voice, disappears towards the door again.

  “May I talk to you?” says young Ronald de Quincey, a white gardenia in his buttonhole. “I wrote a symphony myself. Ha-ha! My sister Celia thought it was very good, and Mama thought so too. ‘Arabesque,’ I called it. You know, Mr. Spencer, very exotic, and full of funny instruments.”

  “Funny instruments?” asks Julian sternly, despising the lad. “Martini,” says Julian, and the man at the bar shakes one quickly, very matter of fact, but smiles as Julian gulps it down the moment it is poured into his glass.

  “Will you have another one?” asks the barman, and Julian nods his head, slightly embarrassed.

  But the hostess grabs him by the arm and drags him away. “Lady Merrivale wants to meet you, my dear. You know, she writes very good books, little novels. You must meet her. She’s a great friend. . . . Delia!” She suddenly shouts to a tall woman with a hat, très chic, long pheasant feather stuck through from here to there in the middle of the crown. “Here’s Julian Spencer. He wants to meet you.”

  And tall Delia: “How do you do?” in a deep horselike voice.

  Julian tries to hide a sudden hiccup. “How do you do?”

  “I must come down to your shop,” says Delia.

  “You must!” says Julian, smiling.

  “I like modern furniture,” continues Delia. “My husband prefers the Victorian type, but I might come and see you, before I furnish our cottage at Sevenoaks.”

  “Splendid,” says Julian, “I’d be delighted if you’d come.”

  “Any pottery?” asks Delia.

  “Lots,” hisses Julian, with suppressed fury. “Pottery all over the place. . . .”

  “Got a card on you?” asks Delia, whereupon Julian says something, quietly, quickly: whatever it was, it must have been a great shock to Delia, Lady Merrivale . . . “Ooh,” she gasps. “What rudeness . . . horrid creature . . . oh, Beatrice!”

  “How are you?” says a young man, poised behind her chair.

  “John,” she says, with relief, “who was
that rude man? Common and disgusting. I tried to help him with his little furniture shop. . . .”

  “Delia, darling,” says the boy, “did you say furniture shop? That was Julian Spencer.”

  “What of it?” asks Delia, as if suddenly stung.

  “Delia—the composer. The famous composer-conductor, Delia.”

  “That’s no reason why he should behave like that.”

  And he, laughing: “Delia, darling—you are delicious. . . .”

  At the other end of the room Julian is leaving. No doubt he has had too many drinks and he seems to be in a daze. He suddenly gets very friendly and shakes hands with everybody, especially heartily with the butler at the door. The hostess is slightly flabbergasted but still she says: “Must you go? Do stay. Sir Desmond Castle might drop in, if he is back from Antibes. And there are two Americans who are simply dying to meet you.”

  Julian repeats: “They’re dying?”

  And the hostess turns to the butler: “Wilberforce, show in Mr. and Mrs. Maddison-Chandler.”

  Whereupon Wilberforce bows like a knight in a fairytale, and an infernal jazz band hidden somewhere starts playing wildly. Terrific rhythmical noise, and every one stops talking as two stretcher-bearers in white hospital outfit prance in, shouting loudly: “Hallo, London! Here we are! Boopa-doopa-doo! Here . . . we . . . are!!”

  And they put down a stretcher.

  Huge applause. On the stretcher an old lady all dressed up in travelling get-up: hat, motoring veil smothering her face, her hands crossed over her chest, holding a bouquet of assorted flowers, very white and waxen. Next to her the husband from Detroit: fat, horn-rimmed pince-nez, walking-stick with silver handle, massive and very rotary. They both say in unison: “We’re dying to meet you . . . but we don’t know why!” And he, reaching slowly into his breast pocket: “Here’s my poisonal card. Don’t hesitate to call on me if you ever come to Detroit, Mich.” And she, sticking out her stumpy, cute, little hand: “Pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

  The husband, getting up, and throwing off the blanket: “Not so sure. Highball and a couple of sandwiches for me. Sidecarrr for the missus.” And he steps into the room and after ordering the essentials of life, lifts his cane: “Silence!” he shouts, reaches into his overcoat pocket, takes out a collapsible microphone, murmurs something into it with a smile, ending up loudly: “Hallo, hallo, Station W.C. calling London, Eng.”

  The Newmarket brethren are standing by, ready to burst into song and dance.

  Mr. Maddison-Chandler puts his hand in his pocket and brings out a little pistol: “Let’s get ready, boys!”

  Bang! Off goes the gun, and the Newmarket boys, with tapping, slightly paralysed feet—bunions and corns—S—P—E—N—C—E—R! Ra! Ra! Ra! And they dance like furies . . . like furies . . . like furies. . . .

  Suddenly the jazz band stops and goes into a very melodious sweet and old-fashioned tune. All the old trout have lined up in the meantime, led by a short heavy-set woman who looks like a bolster on pigs’ feet. And they flutter across the room like an Edwardian corps-de-ballet to the tune of Mendelssohn’s “Spring Song.” . . . Softly they swoop about, their scanty bosoms trembling excitedly. Suddenly they start pirouetting wildly towards Julian, drag him into the middle of the room, and join hands round him. “Taa-ta-ta-ta-dee-de-da-da. . . .”

  “Stop it!” shouts Julian. “Stop it!” And he pushes the old girls aside and tries to run towards the exit, but he is held up by a row of dancing debutantes, hands coyly placed over their uneducated whatnots. He has to push his way through another tenderly dancing row of undergraduates. . . .

  “You’re not leaving, Mr. Spencer!” shouts his hostess.

  But he is gone.

  Street. Taxis. Motor-buses. People on bikes and plain common pedestrians. And Julian, without hat or coat, tries to call a taxi, but the driver only waves his hand, shouting “Yoo-hoo-hoo!” And Ritornelli peeps out of the window, like the cuckoo in a clock, shouting: “Come up and see me some time!” Two policemen stand on the corner and laugh like mad, blowing up, and shrinking to nothing again: “Ha-ha-ha!”

  Julian runs through the traffic on the other side of the road, reaches the corner of another street, and this street, believe it or not, suddenly slides away under his feet. Slides. Slides. And finally behaves like a switchback, undulating before him . . . oop! And down he slides between houses, greengrocers, pubs, and millinery shops. The windows of the houses are quickly opened! People hang out of the windows, shouting and clapping their hands, and a little boy shouts: “Whooppee!”

  Julian finally lands in a quiet square and all seems to be calm again. It grows darker, and a refreshing rain pours down from the clouds. A policeman stands at the corner and looks at two dogs who suffer from that certain spring feeling. It’s all very quiet and peaceful, and the rain is a relief.

  Julian stops for a moment. . . . Of course. He’s standing right in front of . . .

  The bell rings and a dissipated-looking maid walks slowly to the front door, turns on the light, and we see the familiar hall of the Krauts’ flat.

  “Yes?” says the maid.

  And Julian: “Is—is—Viva in?”

  “Viva?” repeats the maid, mystified, and Julian, after a long struggle with himself: “I mean Mrs. Kraut.” And very loud: “Tell her I am here. Just tell her—me—Mr. Spencer. I want to see her for a moment. Why do you stare at me? Go!”

  Viva’s voice is heard from the sitting-room. “Who is it, Florence?”

  And Julian pushes Florence aside and walks towards the room.

  “What do you want?” asks Viva, nervously. And she drops her knitting. “What’s the idea—coming in like this? You’re drunk.”

  Julian doesn’t move, but stands threateningly in the doorway with swaying head. After a long pause: “Viva.” And again: “Viva. You see—it doesn’t work like this. I tried—tried very hard. I know it’s all—I mean—I know you don’t love me any more—you don’t care for me—you’re married and respectable—but I ask you——” And lowering his voice: “Look, Viva, everything will be all right—soon—to-morrow. Maybe you could forget—I’ve nothing in life. Nothing. Nothing but you—it isn’t—it wasn’t my fault. . . .”

  Viva gets up from the sofa and says, cold, sharp and matter of fact: “You’d better go.” She walks to the mirror, smoothing her hair.

  Julian starts pleading again: “Viva,” he says, “if you would only believe me. . . .” But he stops, as there is some hearty chatter and laughter coming from the hall.

  “Two extra for dinner,” says Kraut to the maid, “and plenty of dumplings.” And something about “soaking wet” and a terrific sneeze. . . . “Darrling,” he shouts, “good to be home! Joseph and his wife are coming to dinner!”

  As there is no answer he appears on the threshold. He looks very surprised to see Julian there, and after a terrific pause, quietly and quickly: “What’s up?”

  And as neither answers: “Viva . . . I say . . . what’s up?”

  Viva turns round. And she points at Julian: “He’s drunk.”

  “Drunk?” says Kraut. “That’s no reason why he should come up here.”

  “I’m not drunk,” says Julian. “I’m perfectly sober.”

  “That makes it worse. You know, Spencer, one doesn’t break into other people’s houses, especially if one isn’t wanted. It just isn’t done, see? At least not by decent respectable people.”

  “What did you say?” asks Julian sharply, coming quite close to Kraut.

  “Get out!” says Kraut. “You’re drunk! Get out!”

  “You have no right to talk to me like that, you goddamned German brute. . . . Strong man! . . . You swine!”

  “Stop it!” shouts Viva, seeing that Kraut is reaching for the little stool near him.

  “I’ll show you!” says Kraut. “I’ll teach you to call me a German brute.” And he swings the stool towards Julian’s face, but Julian ducks and Kraut’s stool crashes into an old photograph of a Germa
n Turnfest—splintering, crashing. . . .

  “Stop it! Both of you get out of here! I tell you he’s drunk!”

  Julian tries to struggle with Kraut. Kraut finally gets a grip on him, drags him out of the living-room, through the dark hall, past sporting pictures and umbrella stand, to the front door, opens it wide: “That’ll teach you a lesson!” and shuts the door with a bang.

  Streets. There are lots of streets: long ones and short ones, all in bright sunlight. Buses and trams, and people standing in lines and groups waiting for one or the other.

  And then, quite suddenly, it’s dark. Mind you, dark night. You can’t see the stars or the moon, but hundreds of street lamps and light signs and cars, head-lights turned on.

  And then it’s bright daylight again. Julian is walking the streets, and he is in a damned hurry, no doubt. And day and night change rapidly. What street is this? Might be Shaftesbury Avenue, or one of those lonely streets in the city. No, it’s probably Shaftesbury Avenue. Maybe—no—oh hell, let’s get on with the story. . . . Anyway, there are streets and there is a policeman standing at the corner, and it says Stop, and then Go again, and if you hurry it always says Stop—God damn it. There are suddenly familiar faces. Bosworth is buzzing by. “Hallo, Spencer!” he shouts. “Glad to see you!” And he is gone again. And there’s Shark, all swank and dressed up to the nines. “Something whimsy afoot?” he asks. And disappears into the crowd. And there’s Coco, and on a string, the Little Wizard. “Exercising the bastard,” he murmurs, giggling, and off he goes again. “Hallo, hallo!” says Esmond. “My wife . . . I don’t know what to do. Life’s not worth living. Another three months. . . .” And he is one with the crowd. And a beautiful Delage rolls by, and Sir Desmond Castle taps with his crooked cane on the window behind the chauffeur, and the chauffeur stops. Sir Desmond opens the door. “Mr. Spencer,” he shouts. “How do you do?” But the signal changes to Go, and Castle’s car disappears in a thick cloud of smoke from the exhaust.