by Alan Coren
‘Up the blink, Master?’ murmured the pupil, gloomily watching Leonardo’s shredded cloak smouldering in the door’s boiler. ‘On the spout?’
‘Down the tubes,’ muttered Leonardo. He dusted himself off, and peered into the bustling workshop, on the far side of which a tiny buskinned man was throwing vegetables into a large glass cylinder. ‘Hallo, what’s that little twerp Giovanni up to now?’
The pupil examined his clipboard.
‘Where are we?’ he said. ‘Tuesday, Tuesday, yes, Tuesday he is supposed to be on rotary-wing research. He is down here as developing the Leonardo Gnat.’
Cursing, Leonardo ran across and snatched an imminent cucumber from Giovanni’s little hands; in the confusion, a chicken scrambled out of the glass cylinder and fled, clucking.
‘That’s never a helicopter!’ cried Leonardo.
‘Insofar as you would have a job getting to Pisa in it,’ replied the pupil, ‘that is true. However, Master, it works on the same principle. It is what we call a spin-off. If I may be permitted?’
Leonardo prodded the cylinder with his patent umbrella. The ferrule droped off.
‘Two minutes,’ he said. ‘But God help you if it turns out to be another bloody toaster. They’ll never send the fire brigade out four days in a row.’
Giovanni, who had meanwhile been turning a large key protruding from the base of the cylinder, now took a deep breath, and flicked a switch. Inside the cylinder, blades whirled, howling; a white lumpy mass spread across the ceiling. Leonardo looked slowly up, as the substance coalesced into soft stalactites; a blob fell into his beard, and he licked it off.
‘Vichyssoise, is it?’ he enquired, levelly.
‘Leek and turnip, actually,’ said Giovanni. He spooned a quantity from Leonardo’s hat, and tasted it. ‘Could do with a bit more garlic?’
Leonardo swung his umbrella. It turned, naturally enough, inside out, but the residual sturdiness was still enough to fell Giovanni where he stood. Slowly, his ear swelled, glowing.
‘I want this one,’ said Leonardo to the pupil-foreman, ‘on the next train to Santa Maria della Grazie.’
‘The Last Supper, Master?’ cried the pupil-foreman, aghast. ‘Are you sure he’s up to it?’
‘I’m a dab hand with apostles,’ retorted Giovanni, struggling to his feet, ‘also glassware. You could drink out of my goblets.’
‘He will not be painting the wall,’ said Leonardo, ‘he will be plastering it prior to undercoat, as per ours of the 14th ultimo, plus removing all rubbish from site and making good.’
‘Bloody hell!’ cried Giovanni. ‘All I forgot was the lid! I have not even mentioned the fact that the amazing new Vincimix comes with a range of attachments which chop, shred, slice, and whip the pips out of a quince before you can say Jack Robinson.’
At which point, all the windows blew in.
Slowly, Leonardo da Vinci walked through the settling dust, and looked out. A blackened face looked back at him. Neither spoke. Leonardo turned and walked back through the room.
‘You’ll have to go by horse,’ he said to Giovanni.
‘Do not be downcast, Master,’ said the pupil-foreman. ‘Nobody said trains were easy.’
Leonardo stared at the floor.
‘Funny,’ he said, ‘the lid hops up and down all right on the kettle.’
The clock struck ten. Absently, Leonardo picked up the fallen cuckoo, walked out of the workshop, into the sunlit street, climbed on his bicycle, and began pedalling slowly towards Fiesole, scattering nuts and spokes. By the time he reached the house of Zanoki del Giocondo, he was carrying a wheel and a saddlebag, and sweating.
He tugged the bell-rope.
‘I phoned,’ he gasped, when she answered the door.
‘The knot came out,’ she replied.
‘I thought so,’ he said. He cleared his throat. ‘Is he in?’
‘He’s out in his tank.’
‘I thought he’d like that,’ said Leonardo. ‘I thought it might get him out of the house.’ He walked into the hall. ‘I hope he doesn’t suspect anything, mind.’
‘No. He thinks you’re a faggot. Nobody else gives him presents.’ A neighbour passed, and peered, and smiled. La Gioconda nodded, and closed the front door. ‘How long is he likely to stay out?’ she said. ‘I don’t know anything about tanks.’
‘Days, possibly,’ said Leonardo. ‘We haven’t cracked this business of the tracks. It tends to go round in circles until the engine seizes up. Even if he manages to get the lid open again, he won’t have the faintest idea where he is.’
‘But we ought to do a bit more of the painting, first?’
‘You can’t be too careful,’ said Leonardo da Vinci. He propped his wheel against the dado, and opened his saddlebag, and took out his palette and his easel; but as he was following her through the house and out into the garden – not simply for the light but for the assuaging of neighbourly curiosity – he could not help noticing the way a sunbeam fell across her plump shoulder, and the way her hips rolled.
So they decided to do a bit more of the painting afterwards, instead.
And when they were in the garden, finally, he put the necklace around her neck, and fastened the clasp, and she cried aloud:
‘Diamonds!’
‘What else?’ he said.
So she sat in her chair, with her hands folded and a broad smile on her tawny face, and Leonardo da Vinci’s brushes flicked back and forth, and the neighbours peered from between the mullions, and were satisfied.
And then it began to rain.
Not seriously enough to drive them in; just a warm summer blob or two. But one such, unfortunately, fell on her necklace, and, after a few moments, she looked down, and stared; and then she said, carefully:
‘The diamonds appear to be going grey.’
‘Ah,’ said Leonardo.
‘Is that usual?’
Leonardo came out from behind his easel, and looked at them.
‘It could be,’ he said, ‘With this new process.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It’s a bit technical,’ said Leonardo.
‘Try me.’
‘You start off with coal,’ said Leonardo.
‘I see.’
She stared at him for a long while after that, until Leonardo went back behind his easel. He picked up his brush.
He looked at her.
Her lip curled.
He put the brush down again.
‘It isn’t much of a smile,’ said Leonardo da Vinci.
‘It isn’t much of a necklace,’ said Mona Lisa.
39
The Gospel According to St Durham
. . . and Jesus went forth, and saw a great multitude, and was moved by compassion toward them, and he healed the sick with the blue mould that he had scraped off the five loaves that he had brought.
15 And when it was evening, his disciples came to him, saying, Shut the surgery, none of these people has an appointment anyhow, send them away that they may go into the villages and buy themselves some victuals.
16 But Jesus said unto them, They need not depart; give ye them to eat.
17 And they said unto him, We have here but two loaves and five fishes.
18 And Jesus said, It is five loaves and two fishes, for the umpteenth time, why does everyone always get that wrong, two loaves and five fishes would be tricky, but five loaves and two fishes is a doddle, we could even cut off the crusts.
19 And he took the two fishes, and he hung them over the fire a little while.
20 And his disciples marvelled, saying, What is this miracle that thou art performing now?
21 And he said unto them, It is called smoked salmon, you slice it very thin and you put it on titchy pieces of bread, you would not credit the number of people you can cater for, it will change the face of bar mitzvahs as we know them.
22 And lo! The miracle of the canapé was done, and the disciples went around with twelve trays, and the multitude said, Terrific, b
ut what about the little slices of lemon?
23 And Jesus said unto them, Look up into the trees, and the people were amazed, for they had never realised that the things in the trees were lemons, they had only ever seen lemons in slices at catered functions.
24 And they that had eaten were about five thousand men, beside women and children and gatecrashers who had pretended to be distant relatives on the bride’s side.
25 And straightaway Jesus constrained his disciples to get into a ship, and to go before him unto the other side, while he sent the multitudes away, and he went up into a mountain apart to pray.
26 But the ship was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with waves; for the wind was contrary.
27 And in the fourth watch of the night Jesus went unto them, walking on the sea.
28 And when the disciples saw him, they were troubled, saying, It is a spirit; and they cried out for fear.
29 But straightway Jesus spake unto them, saying, Be of good cheer; it is I and this is the breaststroke, be not afraid.
30 And Peter answered him and said, Lord, if it be thou, bid me come unto thee on the water.
31 And Jesus said, You do your legs like a frog and you push with your hands, but the main thing is not to panic.
32 And Peter was come down out of the ship, and walked on the water, to go to Jesus. But when he saw the wind boisterous, he was afraid; and beginning to sink, he cried, saying, Lord save me.
33 And immediately Jesus stretched forth his hand and caught him, and said unto him, O thou of little faith, if thou hadst merely turned upon thy back and not panicked, thou wouldst have floated, it is simple hydrodynamics, one day all Jews will swim, personally I blame Moses, parting the Red Sea was just molly-coddling people.
34 And the disciples gazed upward, fearing that the clouds would part and a great finger would come down and poke their boat, because the Red Sea plan had been God’s idea in the first place.
35 But that did not happen; instead, the wind ceased, probably because God had conceded the point. And they that were in the ship came and worshipped Jesus, saying, Of a truth thou art the Son of God.
14 And after the miracle of the smoked salmon, Jesus was much in demand at big affairs.
2 And the third day thereafter, there was a marriage in Cana of Galilee; and the mother of Jesus was there.
3 And both Jesus was called, and his disciples, to the marriage. And the disciples murmured amongst themselves, saying, Wonder what it’ll be this time, five cocktail sticks and two little sausages? The miracle of the croquette potato?
4 But it was the wine, this time, and when they wanted wine, the mother of Jesus said unto him, They have no wine.
5 Jesus said unto her, Woman, what have I to do with thee? Mine hour is not yet come.
6 But his mother replied in this wise, saying, Who is talking about hours being come, this is no big deal, this is just one of your smart tricks with the wine, so that I am not ashamed of the son that I have borne, his catering is already a house-hold word all over.
7 And Jesus said, Trick?
8 And his mother said, All right, miracle. And she said unto the servants, Whatsoever he saith unto you, do it.
9 And there were set there six water-pots of stone, after the manner of the purifying of the Jews, containing two or three firkins apiece.
10 Jesus said unto the servants, Fill the water-pots with water. And they filled them up to the brim.
11 And he turned to his disciples and he said, What kind of people throw a big function but do not lay on wine?
12 And Simon Peter said, How about people who never drink wine, Lord?
13 And Jesus said, Right in one, verily are there no flies on thee, Simon Peter, brother of Andrew. Thus shall the water be drawn from these water-pots and we shall pass among the guests with the cups, saying in this wise, It is a naive domestic Burgundy without any breeding, but I think you’ll be amused by its presumption.
14 And he said unto the servants, Draw out now, and bear unto the governor of the feast. And they bore it.
15 And his disciples moved among the multitude, and very soon vast numbers in that multitude were saying, No more for me, it goeth straight to my head, and Good colour, lasts well, a plucky little wine, if a trifle farmyard, and Perhaps not quite forward enough yet, but well worth laying down a case or two.
15 After this there was a feast of the Jews: and Jesus went up to Jerusalem.
2 Now there is at Jerusalem by the sheep market a pool, which is called in the Hebrew tongue Bethesda, having five porches.
3 And a certain man was there, which had an infirmity, waiting for the waters of the pool to be moved by an angel so that he might step in and be made whole.
4 Because that was the kind of crackpot superstition Jesus had to put up with all his working life.
5 When Jesus saw the man lie, and knew that he had been a long time in that case, he said unto him, Wilt thou be made whole?
6 Because Jesus had been around, and he had learned a thing or two about psychosomasis; and he knew that wilt was half the battle.
7 And the man answered him, Sir, I was at this wedding at Cana a few days back, and they had this really good stuff there, I must have put away a firkin and I have this mother and father of all hangovers, my legs are like unto rubber, plus shooting pains all over.
8 And Simon Peter said unto Jesus, You were not wrong about the psychosomatic stuff, Lord. Wilt thou tell him, or shall I?
9 And Jesus said, You are only my registrar, this is a job for the consultant.
10 And straightaway he told the man about the water at Cana.
11 And the man said unto him Art thou serious?
12 Jesus said unto him, Rise, take up thy bed, and walk.
13 And immediately the man was made whole, and took up his bed, and walked: and on the same day was the Sabbath.
14 Therefore the Jews said unto him that was cured, It is the sabbath day: it is not lawful for thee to carry thy bed.
15 He answered them, He that made me whole, the same said unto me, Take up thy bed, and walk.
16 Then asked they him, What man is that which said unto thee take up thy bed and walk on the Sabbath?
17 And he answered them, saying: A doctor.
18 And the Jews said, A qualified man? That’s different.
40
O Little Town of Cricklewood
I do not expect you to remember it, but I have mentioned our new neighbours before. It is one of the small perks of being a hack that one can very occasionally vent publicly things that cannot otherwise be de-chested. I am not proud of it, but sometimes it is the only alternative to roping the throat to an RSJ and kicking away the bentwood chair. I hope you’ll understand.
Not that the imminent occasion is anywhere near as dire as the last, when the thirteen children of, let us call him Chief Paramount, all came home from Stowe and Roedean for the summer hols and, slipping out of their First XI blazers and navy knickers and into initially rather fetching ethnic clobber, threw a party which went on next door for six days and nights and employed a good eighty per cent of all the steel bands east of Tobago. No shortage of instruments for late-arriving guests to have an amateur bang on, either, doubtless because Chief Paramount owns a sizeable whack of the Nigerian oil industry, and the drums just keep on coming.
He also enjoys diplomatic status. Indeed, it would be hard to find anyone who enjoyed it more. The family hobby is parking on zebra crossings, sideways, and building peculiar baroque extensions to their house which would not only require planning permission but also a Special Royal Commission on Suburban Blight if they were perpetrated by anyone not in a position to torpedo the next Commonwealth Games if he’s not allowed to build a lighthouse where his coalshed used to be.
Thus, we do not complain. It would be un-neighbourly as well as futureless to do so formally, and it is difficult to do so informally because not only is Chief Paramount in Nigeria all the time, but there are three Mrs Paramounts. I learned this
when I called to enquire which of their thirteen heirs had flattened the party-fence, and had a long and interesting conversation with what I had taken to be the lad’s mother, only to discover that I had picked the wrong mother. I assume the Chief to be a Muslim, or perhaps just careless.
Anyway, this multispousal situation lies at the root of my present little difficulty. We have occasionally dropped a note in next door, inviting the Chief to a gin and Twiglet, but he has always been abroad; he will, however, be home for Christmas, we learned from his manciple (now living in a tasty Gothic folly which appeared at the end of the garden only quite recently), and since we throw an annual Boxing Day party for our neighbours, we have decided to invite him in.
Them in.
You see the problem immediately, I know. It occurred to me of course, only after, milliseconds after, their letterbox-flap had snapped over my note: I do not know how to entertain a man with three wives.
They will come in. The room will be jovial, hot, mistletoe-hung, and full of guests mulled into a sense of false bonhomie. Do I say: ‘May I introduce Chief and Mrs Paramount and Mrs Paramount and Mrs Paramount? Or simply ‘This is Chief and the Mrs Paramounts’? In that case, other guests would naturally start attempting to establish which was his wife, which his mother, which his sister-in-law, to be followed by all kinds of embarrassments about who looked too young to be what, and so forth. Should I, therefore, take a positive, nonosense approach: ‘This is Chief Paramount and his wife. The lovely lady in the long puce number is his other wife, ha-ha-ha, and that’s his third wife over by the bookcase, in the green silk suit.’
I know these silences that open up at parties. Some prat is bound to step into the vacuum and start wittering on about how civilised it is to get on socially with one’s ex, oh you all live together next door, do you, how extremely sophisticated, you people can still teach us primitive honkies a thing or two, ha-ha-ha, would you care for a prawn cracker, tell me, is it true, don’t be offended, that . . .
Worse (probably), is there a pecking order in a three-wife situation? Does the tall one in the puce, having brought the largest number of heifers to the marriage, get to be introduced first? Or is that the prerogative of the green silk suit, who happens to be the seventh daughter of the seventh son of a Witch Consultant? Maybe the one next to him is Top Wife, having borne him the first of the thirteen, who can tell?