DODGER GOT BACK home and cleaned his face and hands while Solomon dished up the pork casserole; Solomon never said much about his time wandering around other countries, but he had certainly learned cookery on the journey, using spices and herbs that Dodger had never heard of.
Dodger had once asked Solomon why he had chosen to come to England, and Solomon had said, ‘Mmm, well, my dear, it seems to me that in the pinch most governments settle for shooting their people, but in England they have to ask permission first. Also, people don’t much mind what you’re doing as long as you’re not making too much noise. Mmm, I like that in this country.’ He had paused. ‘Once, when I was running away, as usual, I recall I met a rather hairy young man who told me that one day all that sort of thing would be swept away. We were hiding from Cossacks at the time. Occasionally, I mmm wonder what happened to young Karl . . .’
After the meal, which was delicious, Solomon and Dodger took Onan for his walk while the sun chased the horizon. It was an education to see Solomon locking up. The steps to the attic were narrow and rickety, just like the rest of this place and more or less like everywhere else, but it was when you got inside the attic you noticed the differences – the steel reinforcement around the door, the lock that looked simple but was very complicated indeed, having been made by Solomon himself. It would have taken a small army to break in, and Dodger himself even had to give a special knock before Solomon would open his door. He had asked Solomon why he went to all this trouble, and the old man had said ‘A lesson learned, my friend,’ and left it at that.
Now the streets looked a little like a fairyland under the honey glow of the evening sun, although, it must be said, only a little. But the sun seemed to heal the city of the argy-bargy and insults of the day, although there were still a few stalls, their owners lighting up flares as the light dwindled. All was calm and placid – but you knew that this was merely the shift change, because the night people followed the day people as, well, night follows day, although day, generally speaking, doesn’t pick night’s pockets.
The two of them had a beer from a bottle shop, sharing some of it with Onan while Dodger told Sol about Onan’s find in the sewers, and how he was planning to return to the Mayhews’ house to take Simplicity for a walk if possible the following day. Tired out, they finally headed back to the attic.
On the way Dodger noticed something quite brilliant shining through the filthy air and said, ‘What’s that, Sol? Is it an angel?’
It was said more in fun than anything else, but Solomon said, ‘Mmm, my experience of angels is somewhat limited, my boy, although I do believe they exist mmm; however, that particular angel, if I am not mistaken, is the planet Jupiter.’
Dodger squinted at it. ‘What’s that, then?’ Sol was always telling him stuff, but this was definitely something new.
‘You don’t know? Jupiter is a gigantic world, much bigger than the Earth.’
Dodger stared. ‘Do you mean that Jupiter is a world with people living on it?’
‘Mmm, I believe astronomical science is uncertain on that point mmm, but I assume there must be, because otherwise what would be the purpose of it? And if I may expand mmm, I will tell you that it is only one of a number of planets, which is to say worlds, moving around the sun.’
‘What? I thought the sun went round us. I mean, you can see it doing it, it stands to reason.’
Dodger was puzzled, and the careful voice of Solomon said, ‘Mmm, there is no doubt about it; the fact has definitely been established. It might also amuse you to know that the planet Jupiter has four moons, which travel around it just like our moon travels around the Earth.’
‘What do you mean? I thought you just said we go round the sun. So where does the moon go, then? Not round the sun too?’
‘Indeed, the moon circles the Earth and together they circle the sun, and indeed, mmm I can assure you about the moons of Jupiter, because I witnessed them through a telescope when I was in Holland.’
Dodger thought his head would explode. What a thing to find out. You get up, you walk around, you think you know everything there is to know, and suddenly it turns out that up in the sky everything is spinning around like a top. He felt almost indignant that he hadn’t been let into the secret before, and as they continued their walk, he listened hard as Solomon imparted as much astronomy as he could remember, a process which ended when Dodger said, ‘Can we get to any of these worlds?’
‘Mmm, very unlikely, they are a long way off.’
Dodger hesitated at this and said, ‘As far away as Bristol, maybe?’ He had heard of Bristol, apparently a big port but not as big as London.
Solomon sighed and said, ‘Alas, Dodger, it is much, much further away than Bristol; it is even much further away than Van Diemen’s Land, which I believe is the furthest you can go from here, it being on the other side of the world.’
It seemed to Dodger that everything he was told by Solomon stuck him like a silver pin, which didn’t hurt but filled him up with a sort of fuzz. He was beginning to see a world that stretched far beyond the tunnels beneath the streets – a world which was filled with things he didn’t know. Things he hadn’t even known he didn’t know until now. Things he realized with a jolt that he wanted to know about. He wondered too if maybe Simplicity might be even more interested in a man who knew this kind of thing – and he realized how much he was looking forward to seeing her again.
As they climbed the stairs, Solomon said, ‘If you were better at your letters, Dodger, I might interest you with the works of Sir Isaac Newton. Now let us get in, I am beginning to feel the damp. Mmm, you asked me about angels earlier, which are mmm messengers, so I suspect that means anything that brings you information may be considered to be an angel, my dear Dodger.’
‘I thought they were supposed to be messages from God?’
Solomon sighed as he began the business of unlocking his door. ‘Mmm, well now,’ he said, ‘if one day you gave up messing about in . . . well, mess, I might talk to you about the works of Spinoza, a philosopher who might broaden your mind – because, as far as I can see, there’s plenty of room – and pass on the nature of atheism, which most certainly questions the belief in God. As for me, some days I believe in God, and some days I do not.’
Then Dodger said, ‘Is that allowed?’
Solomon pushed the door open and then fussily began locking it up again behind them. ‘Dodger, you fail to understand the unique arrangements between Jewish people and God.’ He looked over at Onan, and added, ‘We are not always in agreement. You ask about angels. I speak of people. But who, for instance, are humans to sanction love to themselves alone? Where there is love there must mmm surely be a soul; yet curiously the Lord appears to believe that only humans have souls. I have explained to Him at length why He should mmm reconsider His stance on the matter, especially since, quite some time ago and before I met you, I was once confronted by an agitated gentleman possessed of a belief that all Jews should die, and also of a very large metal bar – a circumstance, may I add, that I was not mmm unfamiliar with in any case. Onan, who wasn’t much more than a puppy at that time, valiantly bit him in the unmentionables, thereby distracting him so that I could lay him low with a little trick that I had mmm learned in Paris. Who can say that action wasn’t done out of love, especially since in doing his very best to keep me from harm, Onan received for his selflessness the heavy blows that possibly made him the dog he is today. Mmm, and now I am rather tired, and I intend to put out the light.’
In the gloom Dodger rolled out his mattress; Onan watched him eagerly, in the hope that this might be one of those nights when it was chilly enough for Dodger to want a rather smelly dog sharing the thin mattress with him. His gaze held that unconditional love that only a dog can have – a dog with a soul, surely. But Onan was irredeemably a dog, which made his metaphysics considerably less complicated than those of humans, although sometimes he had a slight crisis in that he did have two gods to worship: the old one who smelled of so
ap, and the young one who smelled deliciously of just about everything else – at least when he got back from toshing, when to the senses of Onan Dodger was like a rainbow stuffed with kaleidoscopes. Now the hopeful dog riveted Dodger in the somewhat distressing sincerity of his love, and Dodger gave in; he always did.
The little room was silent and dark, apart from the slight snoring of Solomon, the grey light that managed to filter through the dirty window, and the smell of Onan, which in some peculiar way could almost be heard.
Outside in the street, one man watched, though he wished there were two men, because one man by himself could so easily be one dead man in the morning, if indeed the dead can find themselves dead, which was one of those philosophical conundrums that Solomon liked.
Up in the attic Dodger slept, and in his dreams he listened to the planets rolling overhead, interspersed occasionally with visions of the girl with golden hair.
He got up even earlier than Solomon the next morning; usually, if he had no plans for the day, he would lounge under the blanket until Onan licked his face, and you never wanted that to happen more than once.
Solomon said nothing, but Dodger noticed his little smile as he made the soup that would do duty for breakfast today. It was true that with Solomon’s magic and his contacts in Covent Garden, he could make mere gruel into a very elegant soup which Dodger believed could hardly be bettered anywhere, even by Marie Jo. And right now, Dodger put down his spoon.
‘That was very nice, thank you, Sol, but now I have to go.’
‘Mmm, not without shining your boots you are not. You are almost a gentleman now, at least in very poor lighting circumstances, and you are on a mission of mmm great importance, and so you must look your best, especially this afternoon when you go and see Miss Simplicity again. It can be difficult enough as it is to be a member of the chosen people in this city without being accused of sending a lad like you out without appropriate schmutter; people will be going back to throwing stones at the building again! Mind you don’t get that suit dirty – I want to see you back here later with not one mark on it. Now, your boots, boy.’ Solomon opened one of his strongboxes and handed Dodger a small metal container saying, ‘This is the proper boot polish, the real thing, even smells nice mmm, not like that dratted pig fat you use! You will expend some elbow grease shining your shonky boots until you can see your somewhat shonky face in them, which leads me on to the next thing that you are going to have to do, because you will see that your face needs almost as much work as your boots, since you didn’t mmm wash properly last night.’
Before Dodger could object Solomon continued, ‘And then you will realize that what you tend to think of as your hair is in fact something worse than mmm a Mongolian’s breeches, which are noisome things indeed, for the hair and bits of yak; indeed, I believe yak milk is what they use on their hair for special occasions. And so, since I don’t want to have to flee to yet another country mmm, after you have got yourself spruced up and looking like a Christian – because, my dear boy, the chances of you ever looking Jewish are thankfully small – I suggest you go and find yourself a proper barber for a haircut and a professional shave, not mmm from an old man whose hands get shaky when he’s tired.’
Dodger could shave himself in a lacklustre kind of way – even if, truthfully speaking, there wasn’t really all that much to shave yet – but he had never had a proper official haircut in his life. He would generally just do it himself, slicing off handfuls of hair with his knife, using Solomon as a kind of clever looking glass since the old boy just stood in front of him and told him whereabouts to slice next. This left something to be desired, possibly everything, and then he would have to have a go with the nit comb, which was uncomfortable to say the least, but it stopped the itching. It was great to see the little buggers dropping out onto the floor too, where he could jump up and down on them, knowing that for the next few days, at least, he was not going to be a nitwit.
He plunged his hand into his scalp now, a technique which Solomon called the German comb, and he had to admit that Sol was right – there was considerable room for improvement up there above his eyebrows. So he said, ‘I know where there’s a barbershop. I saw it the other day when I was in Fleet Street.’
He had enough time, he thought, as he applied the aforesaid elbow grease to his boots, along with the newfound boot polish. Solomon, standing over him to make certain he did it properly, said that he had bought the polish in Poland. There seemed to be no end to the countries that Solomon had visited and left at speed; it wouldn’t do to force him to go to another.
Dodger now remembered how Solomon had once taken a pepperbox pistol from one of his strongboxes. ‘What do you want that for?’ he had asked. And Solomon had said, ‘Once bitten, twice shy. But not that shy . . .’
When the boots were cleaned to the old man’s satisfaction – and he was not easily satisfied – Dodger sprinted in the general direction of Fleet Street. The streets were warming up, but he felt clean, even if there was a certain question mark over the shonky suit: it was making him itch like mad! It looked wonderful, and he wanted to be all nonchalant and wide as he walked up the street, but this was rather spoiled by the fact that every spare minute he was scratching somewhere about his person. It was an itch that wanted to move about, a playful itch, and it wanted to play hide and seek, at one point being in his boots and then turning up behind his ears, and just as quickly finding its way into his crotch, where on the whole it was rather difficult to do anything about in public. However, he decided that going faster might help and so he arrived, slightly breathless, at the barbershop he had noticed yesterday, and for the first time glanced at the little nameplate, which he eventually deciphered as: Mr Sweeney Todd, Barber-Surgeon.
He stepped inside the place, which appeared to be empty until he spotted a pale and rather nervous-looking man who was sitting in the barber’s chair and drinking a beverage of what turned out to be coffee. The barber sighed as he saw Dodger, dusted down his apron and said with brittle cheerfulness, ‘Good morning, sir! An excellent morning! What can I do for you today?’ At least, he tried to make this greeting cheerful, but you could see he didn’t have it in him. Never had Dodger seen such a woebegone face, apart from the time when Onan disgraced himself more than usual by eating Solomon’s dinner while the old man’s back was turned.
Mister Todd was definitely not a naturally cheerful personality; the gloom was apparently laminated to him and he was obviously more built by nature to be someone like an undertaker’s mute, whose job it was to follow the coffin of the deceased, looking respectably mournful but not saying a word because that would cost tuppence extra. It wouldn’t have been so bad if Mister Todd hadn’t tried to ignore it by pretending to be cheerful; it was like putting rouge on a skull. Dodger was fascinated. Perhaps all barbers are like this, he thought to himself. After all, I’m only asking for a shave and a haircut.
With some misgivings, he sat down in the chair and Sweeney swirled a white sheet over him in a way which would have been called theatrical if, indeed, Sweeney had really known how to do it first time. At this point, Dodger became aware of a dull, persistent smell coming from somewhere. It had the flavour of decay and it mingled with the smells of soap and jars of various lotions. He thought, Well, this isn’t a butcher’s shop, so I just bet his landlord has gone and knocked a way from the privy to the sewers – I really wish they didn’t do that sort of thing.
A lot of the sheet ended up round Dodger’s neck, to be whisked aside by the luckless Sweeney with lots of apologies and assurances that it wouldn’t happen again. It did. Twice. Next time it fell around Dodger in a way that both of them could live with, and the sweating Sweeney turned his attention to the job in hand. At some time, somebody must have told Mister Todd that a barber, in addition to tonsorial prowess, should have memorized practically a library of jokes, anecdotes and miscellaneous rib-ticklers, occasionally including – should the gentleman in the chair be of the right age or nature – ones that
might include some daring remarks about young ladies. However, the person that had given him this advice had simply not calculated on Sweeney’s terrible lack of anything that could be called bonhomie, cheerfulness, ribaldry or even a simple sense of humour.
Nevertheless, Dodger noticed he did try. Oh my, how he tried, stropping his razor while messing up punch lines and, horror of horrors, laughing at the joke which he himself had so clumsily executed. But at last the razor was sharp enough for Sweeney and then there was the matter of the shaving foam, which the man attended to just as soon as he had laid the razor down so that its gleaming edge faced north, all the better to maintain its sharpness.
Dodger, helpless in the chair, watched in something like awe, his mind springing to and fro from the spectacle of the barber’s preparations to a pleasing image of the admiration he hoped would appear on Simplicity’s face once she saw him scrubbed up so well, oh my, a proper young gent. Now he could see that the man’s hands had scars on every finger, although this slight problem barely showed up because Sweeney was briskly whisking up the shaving foam with all the manic enthusiasm of a circus clown. The stuff was falling out all over the place, and here and there, because it had been so suffused with air as to make it practically dirigible; it was floating away on the breeze as if it wanted to get out of there as much as Dodger did right now – especially since he was aware of that smell, that heavy and unpleasant smell, gradually permeating the shop.
‘Are you feeling all right, Mister Todd?’ he said. And, ‘Your hands are shaking a little bit, Mister Todd.’
The barber’s face looked like steel, if steel could sweat, and he was swaying back and forth with his eyes like two holes in the snow, looking far away but at something else, somewhere else. Dodger began stealthily to extricate himself from the cloth, whilst keeping a sharp eye on the man. And, oh dear, and now Mister Todd started to mumble, the words blurred as they tried to get out one after the other, some of them so urgent to get away from the swaying man that they overtook themselves.
Dodger Page 11