by Simon Raven
A party of German tourists now arrived and were seated in two rows on the left-hand side of the nave, on the level of the side altar, the third on the right, where it was all going to happen. Excellent view for bloody thrusting Krauts, thought Leonard, they should have built a wall a mile high all round Germany after the war and locked the whole lot inside it for ever. Beelzebub, this ulcer. Now three obviously English people: a statuesque woman, a boyish girl carrying a baby, and a large furtive young man, who looked around warily and seemed relieved when parked, by the usher, behind a column. The girl with the infant was also parked behind it: quite right, Leonard thought, babies have no business at public ceremonies or anywhere else except in the nursery and in their prams in the municipal gardens. Much the same applied to women when you came down to it. He remembered a story of Canteloupe’s, about the organiser of a cricket match who had set up a barrier round the pavilion with a notice that read NO DOGS WOMEN OR CHILDREN BEYOND THIS POINT which was manned by an ex-Drill Serjeant of the Coldstream. One female had nagged to be let through to her husband (‘One of the players, you know’), exactly the sort of woman whom the arrangement was designed to exclude. Having endured ten minutes of bitching and clacking, the Drill Serjeant, who had brought his flask with him, had said, ‘Madam, you can come through if you show me your prick.’ That had shut her up all right. But it wouldn’t, Leonard thought, have shut up the cruiser weight (with the youth and the young mother), who was now showing herself more than a match for the usher and had chosen her own seat, not right under the veiled picture (for she was not arrogant or presumptuous, only firm) but with a very fair and gently angled view of it. This woman, he now realised, was Gregory Stern’s wife, Isobel, whom he had occasionally met, over the years, when the Sterns visited Detterling’s house in Wiltshire. What the bloody hell’s she doing here, thought Leonard, and then: should I tell her I’ve mislaid her husband? or should I report the matter to Detterling first? Wait and see how he’s placed after the show’s over…at this crush on Torcello perhaps?
Meanwhile, a lot more people had been arriving, priests and monks, officials and politicians (by the look of them), some arty types with long hair and loud shirts but respectable suits, two more parties of tourists, a delegation of Gondoliers in their straw hats with ribands, a flurry of nuns with a platoon of poorly but neatly dressed children (orphans?), and a group of heavily moustached men, one of whom carried a banner which suggested they were a society or guild of fishermen. Then came two braw and bonny girls in trousers, from the look of them as English as two Beefeaters at the Tower, and a minute or two later Balbo Blakeney, looking scruffy, and a tall, dark, superior Yid in a frock coat, holding by the elbow a girl (well, a bit past that, but as pretty as paint so give her the benefit) who looked up at the tapestry, beneath which the trio were taking their seats with some of the senior officials, and had a fit of giggling which the superior Yid (one of Balbo’s art barons?) imperiously checked.
Suddenly there was a loud bang as the South Door, through which everyone had entered, was slammed to – though not before Fielding Gray (for Christ’s sake) had leapt through it like the demon king arriving on a pantomime stage, side by side with a lissom faun with a limp – probably that Eyetie boy of whom Detterling had told him, thought Leonard, the one who had once lived in Venice and went AWOL, a few weeks back, from a monastery in the Lagoon. But there was little time to think about this precious pair, because now the West Door swung open and the sound of bugles playing a Double March came soaring through, followed by two files of Bersaglieri, all black hats and green feathers, who came ramping up the nave and formed three deep on each side of the High Altar. After a brief pause they blew an Olympian Fanfare, which was succeeded by a blast of thunder from the organ. Up the nave now came a choir of surpliced boys followed by a prelate with crozier and gorgeous purple vestments, followed in turn by Detterling in tails and the Marchioness Canteloupe, who looked like the young Victoria when they came to tell her she was Queen (please God, thought Leonard, don’t let me blub). And now the choir and the organ and the bugles really let rip, the ‘Hallelujah Chorus,’ only instead of ‘Hallelujah’ they were singing ‘Asolano…Asolano…Asolano, Asoooolaaano, Asooolaaano’…while Detterling and his consort took their places under the veiled picture; the sentinels executed an operatic sword salute, and the prelate mounted a spiral stairway to a pulpit from which, it appeared to Leonard, he was going to conduct the service.
Asoolaano
Asolano Asolano
Asolano Asolano
Asooolano Asooolaano,
Asooooolaaaaano
As the Chorus concluded, a second prelate, whom Leonard recognised, from a photograph in Detterling’s study in Wiltshire, as the Bishop of Glastonbury, Mungo Avallon, moved into a smaller pulpit (a lectern, perhaps?) opposite the main one. His vestments (of a distasteful mauve) were inferior to those of the principal prelate (the Archbishop of Chioggia, Leonard now gathered from a programme in front of him) but his crozier of gold and rubies well and truly trumped that of the Archbishop, which was ornamented with pieces of obvious paste. The Archbishop, as if conscious of this deficiency, parked the offending staff crossly behind him and began fiddling with a battery of microphones, to the evident contempt of Mungo Avallon, who would manage without any such frippery when his turn came, thought Leonard, good old C of E Todgers can do it, down with weedy foreigners.
‘Cari, qui coivitis in nomine Domini,’ began the Archbishop with a noticeably shifty air; and no wonder, thought Leonard, they’re meant to do it all in the vernacular these days, somebody’s bought the old bugger, that Jew chum of Balbo’s, he looks as if he could buy the Virgin Mary, or at any rate would have the nerve to try…
…Why can’t he put more guts into it, thought Marigold Helmutt, as the Archbishop drivelled on, after all Jacquiz (or some fund he knows about) is paying him a stack of ready money to do it, what rotten value they give round here, the Danieli’s just a rip-off with bedrooms no bigger than the loos used to be…
My word, I wish they’d get all this done with, thought Balbo Blakeney, I’m longing to see that painting again, there’ll be another bloody anthem and then more flatter from His Sanctity or whatever they call him and then a sung Epilogue before they let Baby pull the string (little bitch, but she really looks edible this morning, this afternoon, it’s 12.15 already), roll on the unveiling…
…So, thought Fielding Gray in his place beside Piero at the back of the church, the gang’s all here and no mistake. Canteloupe, Baby, Leonard Percival, that crook Helmutt and his fuck-box of a wife, that prize piss-artist, Blakeney…and Isobel Stern, by God – I suppose Gregory’s still off on that trip of his – and those two huge, smooth Salinger girls, and Jo-Jo with her child and Jeremy, Jeremy, JEREMY, lurking, yes, obviously lurking, in the lee of that column, concealed from most of the congregation, but clearly visible to me here at the back…
…What’s Girolamo doing with Madame Guiscard and her brat, thought Piero Caspar, I thought they didn’t get on together, but they seem friendly enough and the baby adores Jeremy – it’s as good as asking him to take it from its mother, stretching its arms out, and by Heavens he’s taken it, taken it into his bosom with the ease and confidence of a trained nurse, with love too, you can see that, who would ever have thought that Girolamo would get keen about a baby…
…If only he’d keep her forever, thought Jo-Jo, as she handed over Oenone, but I suppose that’s too much to ask. I wonder how my Jean-Marie is getting on in Clermont-Ferrand, I shan’t half have some explaining to do when I see him…
And now an anthem, thought Isobel, high time that old cadaver stopped drizzling away like a cystitic pee. Nos in oculis tuis sumus faeces, Domine – ‘we are turds in Thy sight, O Lord’ – sed per te magna et puchra facimus surgere de terra – ‘but with Thee to aid we make great and beautiful things to arise from the earth.’ God have mercy on two particular turds in His sight, Isobel Stern and Jo-Jo Guiscard, who may be, mustn’t be, ma
y be parted when this little outing is over. O my hot girl, Jo-Jo, I must have you, I’ve never wanted a girl before except Artemis, I suppose that started me off, latent is what I was and now I’ve come out, as faggots say, but Jesus Christ I want you, Jo-Jo, with your throbbing crutch, you and your stiff little clitoris, God knows what I’ll tell my old Jewboy when he gets back, I think Jo-Jo will be able to manage that dripping wet frog of hers; but my old Jew is another matter…
…It’s taking too long, thought Jacquiz Helmutt, let’s hope His Grace has the common sense to cut his next piece of palaver…
…I might have known this would happen, thought Baby Canteloupe: why didn’t I go before we left Torcello? I thought there’d be a lav on that barge, but not a bit of it and of course I should have known there wouldn’t be. I’ll just have to bottle it, that’s all. Well, here we go into the Epilogue of the Service of Thanksgiving, then I pull the cord and we have the special anthem for the unveiled picture, then that buffoon Mungo Avallon has to say something, then there’s a final anthem, I should just make it – provided there’s somewhere to go before we embark again on that barge…
…She seems a bit restless, thought Canteloupe as he glanced at Baby, but she looks absolutely super, like that day I took her out from that poisonous progressive school, and she waved the jam spoon in the air and said she wanted to go to a proper school with work and games and marks and competitions, so that she could be the best and know it, she’d keep on until she was. I wonder what’s been wrong with her. Whatever it is, Torcello has made her a lot better, and today she’s looking fine, just fine, just fine.
…Now, thought Leonard Percival, this must be nearly it. ‘As the Epilogue ends (‘Divitias aeternas da nobis, Domine’)’ he read from his programme, ‘Her Ladyship will unveil the MADONNA WITH THE CHILDREN OF THE PLAGUE, while the Quiristers chant the anthem (especially arranged for the occasion by Sir Jacquiz Helmutt, knt) ‘Ut Romulum Remumque nutrivit lupus.’ I wonder, thought Leonard, what it’s like sucking at a wolf’s tit…
…My turn after that absurd anthem, thought Mungo Avallon, I’ll tell ’em all right, tell ’em what I think, what every true Christian thinks, about all this money being spent on jamborees like this one while the children all over the world starve…the real Children of the Plague…
…God, I’m longing to see that picture, Balbo thought, that flap of the Madonna’s wrist, the flexing of those white thighs…
…Any minute now, thought Sir Jacquiz, thank God Chioggia did cut down on the Collects…
…I wonder whether the cord will stick, Marigold thought, it’s happened before. My God, Helmutt will get into a wax…
Jeremy nudged Jo-Jo, ‘I think we should take a look at the unveiling,’ he whispered. Holding up Oenone to disguise his face, he peered round the pillar. I’m looking forward, he thought, to those thighs which Fielding was on about when we were here before…
…Jeremy, Jeremy, Jeremy, thought Theodosia Salinger, please be here somewhere so that I can find you. I’ll try to let you fuck me if I find you. But can I do that, even for you? Open my legs for you to put that thing into me? Carmilla had fun with Jeremy, but didn’t do that with him. So perhaps we could just do what he and Carmilla did. I’ll ask her what it was when this is over. Oh dear, tennis and badminton are much more fun than love, but love just comes whether you want it or not, it buttonholes you like the Wedding Guest and goes on nagging at you, on and on and on…
…It would really be a very good thing, Carmilla thought, if Jeremy dropped dead. Then Thea could get on with her life and her games in peace…
…Baby looks splendid, Isobel thought. Just a bit nervous, but who wouldn’t be in her place…
…Dignitatem et Honorem et Gratiam funde in animas nostras…
…Well, at least Miss Baby hasn’t noticed me, Piero thought, and even if she should, she doesn’t look as if she’s in the mood for a scene. Rather marvellous, she looks, like when I first met her at the dinner in Lykiarki’s Palazzo…
…That letter, thought Fielding, I hardly had time to read it. I must look at it very carefully as soon as we’re out of here, even before…
…Reges nostros exalta, et Divitias aeternas da nobis, Domine…
…Here we go, thought Baby.
As she rose the sentinels once more saluted with their sabres. The bugles blew. Mungo Avallon, who could never resist a theatrical gesture, raised his crozier in triumph (much as he despised the whole affair), and Alessandro Chioggia lifted both hands and clasped them above his head. Baby tugged on the cord. The tapestry swept back.
Very poor view of those thighs, thought Jeremy, something’s in the way.
Well, at least the machinery worked, thought Marigold, even if there has been another kind of hitch.
There was dead silence except for the sound of Baby’s piddle, which rattled on to the marble between her feet.
Jacquiz contemplated Christ Crucified, a wooden statue (as he supposed) nailed to a cross, which hung in front of the scarcely visible Asolano.
‘I always thought,’ said Jo-Jo loud and clear as Baby’s cascade subsided, ‘that circumcision was an aesthetic blunder. Don’t you agree, Jeremy? That carving of Christ would look all right with a foreskin: as it is, He’s just ridiculous.’
Provoking, thought Balbo, we’ll have to wait till they take this damned crucifix thing down. Some sort of protest, I suppose: Christianity before Art, that kind of thing.
Mungo Avallon waved his crozier like a Morse flag in approval. ‘The pure message,’ he shouted, ‘the pure message.’
Baby stood absolutely still, legs apart, looking up at the Christ, while the pool of piss flooded down the steps of the side altar towards Canteloupe.
Isobel moved down her row, stamping on feet and bashing past bosoms. As she came closer, she could have no doubt of it: though the congealed blood of the Christ disguised His hands, torso, legs and feet, though the clotted hair masked His eyes and forehead, and though sweat and filth caked His navel, she’d know that body anywhere, if only from the nick on the bulb of the penis where the Rabbi’s knife had slipped; for many years she’d loved it and she’d know it anywhere: ‘My old Jewboy,’ she sang out, ‘it’s my old Jew.’
While the cloaked and booted policemen carried Gregory crucified to the Water Ambulance at the quay, Fielding Gray reread his accountant’s letter.
The whole thing was risible. Stern & Detterling, asked to state what monies they received or credited on his behalf during the last three years, had given the gross figures: they had neglected to say that from any money which came from outside they deducted ten per cent as commission before passing it on to Fielding; they had failed to point out that much of the money received and paid on was in any case VAT and therefore irrelevant from the point of view of the Inland Revenue. Once the ten per cents and the VAT payments had been summed the whole of Fielding’s apparent ‘under-declaration’ was accounted for. So simple and stupid was the error that had caused him weeks of anxiety.
Still, the news was good in its kind; and the second item in the accountant’s letter was even better: he understood, the accountant wrote, from an acquaintance in the publishing world, that Stern & Detterling had recently received a payment of £20,000 for the right to film two of Fielding’s earlier novels. The accountant was passing on this information (guaranteed exact) as he understood that Fielding had left London in a hurry and might not have told Stern & Detterling where they should send this pleasing information. When Fielding next saw one or other of them the accountant concluded, would he please instruct Stern and/or Detterling (Canteloupe) not to be so careless (indeed imbecilic) when they, or their employees, returned figures in future.
Well, thought Fielding, Gregory Stern I can never more instruct; Ergo Quintilium perpetuus sopor Urget? he thought. Never more? Gregory who was so generous when I was maimed, unknown, untried. Gregory who gave me, one morning long ago, gave me what? – that Jewish thing – a mezuzah, yes, mezuzah, that was it, a tiny c
ylinder which contained a tiny scroll with all the Names of God written on it – gave me this for a charm and blessing – Ergo Quintilium, oh Gregory, Gregory – gave me this for my safety and his love, as I set out on a long journey. Gregory who – stop this. It can do no good. Orpheus himself could do no good nor all his music. So where was I? Gregory Stern I can never more instruct, that’s where I was; and as for Detterling (Canteloupe) I think perhaps that I shall let him off, at any rate for this afternoon. He has had a difficult day so far. And again, I might so easily have been going to him, if this letter hadn’t reached me just in time, to grovel or to threaten, in either case to lower myself and roll in filth. I am not worthy to instruct Detterling (Canteloupe) or anyone else on any topic: I am a turd in the eye of the Lord. For the time at least let me keep silence…and since they’ve taken Gregory away, I’d better grab the chance of seeing that Asolano.
‘You mean…you’re not going with him?’ Jo-Jo said.
‘No,’ said Isobel. ‘Gregory is dead, probably murdered, and they’re taking him wherever they take murdered people in this country. I am going with you and Oenone, on that boat, to have some much needed luncheon on Torcello.’
‘But they’re bound to need you…for enquiries.’
‘I’ve told them where they can find me. In the Locanda Cipriani on Torcello, where I propose to spend the next two or three nights. But there’s nothing much, nothing helpful I can tell them – except his identity, which I’ve done already. He went away on such a date, I can tell them, to keep (as he said) an appointment with the leader of the anti-Israeli organisation who was called Shamshuddin; and he wound up, as you have seen for yourselves, hanging on the South Wall of the Church of San Martino. So where do you go from there?’