Before The Cock Crow (First Born of Egypt)

by Simon Raven

  ‘You will notice,’ said Don Simone, prodding his fat nose at the Pieta, ‘that one of the women is taking an interest in the physical attractions of the Madonna, at the same time as Mary Magdalen is quite definitely relishing the naked attributes of the dead Christ. Such sexual references or jokes are quite common even in the most serious painters’ treatments of the most sacred subjects. You will find that the theme of the Madonna’s appeal to Sapphists is repeated, quite blatantly, in the reredos of the chapel downstairs. Another entertaining example of such a diversion is to be found in several paintings of the Adoration. An esquire of one of the Three Kings gives an insinuating glance at a much younger page in the retinue of another, and receives an inflammatory look in return. I think,’ said Fontanelli, ‘that you have something for me.’

  The Greco passed over seven hundred-thousand lire notes. ‘Half your fee of a million in advance,’ he said, ‘and two hundred thousand on account for expenses.’ ‘Va bene,’ said Don Simone. ‘Now then. Why, you ask, are we meeting in Cortona? Because Fontanelli enjoys the pictures? No, my friends: but because near here is the off-duty villa of the celebrated Tiresiana. Tiresiana is the person you need for your enterprise – as I understood that enterprise from the Signorino Piero.’ He gave a brief account of Piero’s account, whereupon both the Greco and Nicos confirmed that this was a pretty good summary of the plan devised by Ptolemaeos.

  ‘So,’ said Fontanelli, ‘that is your scheme and the intent of your mission?’

  The Greco and Nicos nodded.

  ‘Dunque,’ said Fontanelli, ‘the agent whom you need is undoubtedly Tiresiana. Let me explain. You have heard, of course, of Le Cascine, the infamous gardens in Firenze, much frequented by whores both female and male. Some years ago it occurred to an ingenious whoremaster that there would be a magnificent market for those who combined male and female in one sex – in a word, since genuine hermaphrodites are rarely procurable, for transvestites. The reasoning was as follows. Italian men do not like to be seen picking up other men; and they get a very rough time of it when confessing, since homosexual sin is held by the priesthood to be far worse than mere fornication. Very well then: present them with a creature brilliantly arrayed as a woman and they need have no shame in accosting it; and as for confession, they can very plausibly claim that they thought they were going with a woman until at the last moment they found a peego – that is your splendid English word, yes? – until at last they found a peego where they should have found the other thing, by which time they were too aroused to desist. Thus, face is preserved in public and a passable defence is put up in the privacy of the confessional – and indeed in their own minds as well. I am not really queer, they can tell themselves: I was tricked.

  ‘The theory worked brilliantly. The cars in the Cascine all thronged to the grotto where gathered the transvestites, who were swathed in fabulous furs and displayed huge thighs above silk hose, huge smooth thighs as of warm marble. Now, of all these transvestites the most famous was Tiresiana, a beautiful student of noble but impoverished family, who was disgusted by his medical studies, filled with loathing by all the common left-wing students, and much bored and irritated by shortage of pleasure-making money. He therefore decided to sell his beauty, to offer it in the now highly fashionable transvestite style, and to take as a nom d’amour a feminine version of Tiresias, who, as you will remember, had been both male and female in his day. To cut a long and eventful story short, Tiresiana prospered from the very beginning of his new career, very soon attracted the attention of two influential cardinals and a film producer, and is now as rich as anyone can be who lives under our invidious fiscal code. He is at present having a holiday on his country estate, which marches with that of the Contessa Passerini (doyenne of the local aristocracy), and whither we shall now proceed.’

  ‘Will he wish to interrupt his vacation?’ Nicos enquired.

  ‘I think the bizarre nature of the case will amuse him. His fee will probably be five times my own. Va bene, signori?’

  Yes, they said, it went well. Ptolemaeos had anticipated a request for some such honorarium and had amply provided them.

  ‘Very well. I shall talk with him first. Although he has never met me, I have been sending him rich clients from Sicily ever since his talents were first rumoured through the channels of our trade, and so he will be well disposed. Then I shall call you in, signori, to agree the contract. The arrangement will take the same form as my own: fifty per cent down and fifty per cent on performance.’

  ‘Well, old girl,’ rumbled Jeremy down the telephone line to Carmilla, ‘how goes it? Is the coast clear?’

  ‘Very far from it. Fielding is still here. Myles Glastonbury is still in a coma. The Provost thinks he is going to be torn to pieces in his own garden by hysterical wood-nymphs. One of our students has just hammered out half the West Window of the Chapel, as a protest against the presence in the College Library of a signed photograph of George VI and Queen Elizabeth, presented during their visit in 1952. It’s all happening, Jeremy. Don’t come here. Don’t ask me to come to Luffham.’

  ‘That’s all very well. I’m suffering from permanent tumescence.’

  ‘And I’m suffering from permanent liquefaction. We shall just have to be patient until things tidy themselves up.’

  ‘Righty-ho. I’ll go to London and arrange for all my tickets. Want to come? To the East, I mean.’

  ‘No. I’ve got a book and several papers to finish.’

  ‘Talking of all that,’ said Jeremy in a complacent voice, ‘did you see that piece about me in GLOBE-2000?’

  ‘Yes. It was more loathsome than I would have thought possible,’ Carmilla said; ‘and so say all of us in Lancaster.’

  ‘I see. You’re all getting jealous, just because I’ve had a little attention at last. Fielding and Tom can’t expect to hold the stage forever, you know. They’re both crumbling into their grave already. Mine is the modern way. People want charisma, the odour of sanctity: they want a guru. But of course what they really want more than anything is to be forgiven for their foulness, to be told that nothing is their fault. I’m working on how to get round to that through the Oriental Connection. Isn’t there some Hindu sect which believes absolutely in predestination? That lets everybody off the hook. Hullo? You there, Carmilla? Hullo?’

  ‘Yes, I’m still here, Jeremy. Pundits…prophets…professional mongers of forgiveness and compassion…never prosper, in the end, unless they believe in their product and their powers of production. Your irony does you credit, in my eyes, but it makes of you just a faker, a fabricator. You’ll be caught out, Jeremy.’

  ‘Not before I’ve made a fortune, like that guru johnny who scarpered from his ashram with a Rolls Royce and five million.’

  ‘Why do you want to make a fortune? You already have one.’

  ‘I want to be sure I can do it for myself. So much more satisfying. Money is rather a bore if it’s just given to you. To appreciate it properly you must have made it, or gambled for it, yourself.’

  Marius was leading Lover Pie round the paddock before the three fifteen race at Regis Priory. Although Regis Priory is a charmless course in all but its name, the paddock (so Marius thought) was neat and agreeable, having trees in blossom round two-thirds of its circumference. ‘Wearing white for Easter Tide,’ thought Marius, remembering one of Rosie’s favourite poems:

  ‘Now of my three score years and ten

  Twenty will not come again;

  Take from seventy years a score,

  It only leaves me fifty more:

  And since to look at things in bloom

  Fifty springs is little room…’

  How was Rosie? Wondered Marius. He pictured her in a meadow in the Midi, coloured flowers growing separately round her feet (at uniform distances from one another, as in early Italian paintings), with Oenone trotting at her side. And as they went across the meadow, the Madonna, throned, appeared at the other end: Mother of God and Queen of Heaven, O, Ave Maria, gratia
plena… Stop it, he thought. No time for reverie. He must not get all vague and make some horrid mistake. True, Gat-Toothed Jenny was watching him, in case of accident, from the entrance to the ring, and Jack Lamprey was keeping a kindly eye open from his place by Raisley Conyngham in the middle of the grass; but it would be shaming, it would be disastrous, it would be the end of his favour with Raisley, if either had to come to his rescue. No more poetry or fantasy: he must concentrate absolutely on the matter in hand before Raisley spotted his mental dereliction, which please God he had not done already.

  There were, thought Marius, pulling himself together, nine entries for this race (the Paignton Trophy), a ’chase of three miles, two furlongs and eighteen yards. Lover Pie, not surprisingly, was the only stallion entered; seven of the rest were geldings; the remaining runner was Prideau Glastonbury’s mare, Boadicea. Although Marius had known very little of handicapping, he was now, under Jack and Jenny, beginning to learn; and he knew that on an informed estimate neither Lover Pie nor Boadicea was expected to win at the weights. Even so, Jenny had promised to pop a fiver each way on Lover Pie at tote prices for both of them (for old times’ sake, of course, Jeremy at Newmarket that summer, oh, Jeremy, it would be nice if you were here with your soft hands and huge round face – stop it, Marius, stop it, or Raisley Conyngham will catch you out); and what with the grateful sun, the white blossom (‘And since to look at things in bloom’ – stop it, stop it) and the fresh grass, what with excitement and hope and gambler’s infatuation, what with the knowledge that many of the public were regarding both himself and Lover Pie with approval, Marius, all vagaries now vanquished, entered into a titillating and almost triumphant condition of euphoria.

  A bell rang somewhere. Nine jockeys filed into the ring. The two last, who were walking almost, but not quite, side by side, were Conyngham’s jockey, Jimmy Pitts, wearing the Conyngham colours (magenta with Cambridge Blue Maltese Cross on back and magenta cap) and a scrawny, hooky youth of about twenty-two, who sported a cherry jacket with Cambridge Blue skull and crossbones on the back and a cherry cap, and was, as Marius knew, Prideau Glastonbury’s jockey, Danny Chead. It occurred to Marius that a casual observer, watching in bad light or at a distance, might easily confuse the two sets of colours. On the other hand, thought Marius, there was no chance of confusing the horses the two men would be riding; for leave aside their sex and size (Lover Pie somewhat the taller), Prideau’s mare, Boadicea, was chestnut while the stallion was grey.

  Jimmy Pitts, who had been muttering back over his shoulder to Danny Chead, paused a second at the edge of the paddock as Marius walked past with Lover Pie.

  ‘Don’t forget, sonny,’ he rapped at Marius: ‘don’t take that blanket off until I give the word.’

  Marius nodded and passed on with Lover Pie. Jimmy Pitts, still muttering back at Danny Chead, strutted towards the centre of the grass. Danny Chead peeled off toward Prideau Glastonbury, who was standing with his trainer, an urbane six-footer called Phil Loche, and his cousin Giles. Jimmy Pitts, having given a perfunctory Wolf Cub salute of two fingers to Raisley Conyngham and snarled more or less amicably at Jack Lamprey, stood in total silence, slapping his right boot with his whip, while Lamprey spoke intently into his left ear. Marius was conscious that the kindly spirit which had filled the paddock only a few minutes before, had abruptly departed with the arrival of Jimmy Pitts and Danny Chead. His euphoria had ebbed and gone. The sun, though still shining, pleased him no longer. The white blossom was now speckled and grubby, the trim, green grass was yellow grey and full of weed. Any eyes that still rested on him and Lover Pie, Marius felt, were indifferent or even hostile. He broke into a muggy sweat all over. He remembered Pitts’ order about the blanket but trembled with fear lest he should somehow mismanage even this very simple operation.

  The loudspeaker system commanded jockeys, and requested gentlemen, to mount immediately. Jack Lamprey beckoned to Marius. He led Lover Pie over the grass, passing quite close to Prideau and Giles Glastonbury, and was agreeably surprised, though by no means totally restored, when Giles raised his hat to him, as to a gentleman of his acquaintance; and Prideau, whom Marius had not met, nevertheless followed Giles’ example.

  Milo Hedley and Tessa Malcolm were in a summer-house on the ridge of a slope which rose from the edge of the lawn at Ullacote, and from which they had a view of the sea between Minehead and Watchett. They were playing chess. During the intervals between his own moves, Milo was reading selections from Twelfth Night to Tessa, while she pondered hers.

  ‘Come, boy, with me, my thoughts are ripe in mischief.

  I’ll sacrifice the lamb that I do love

  To spite a raven’s heart within a dove.’

  ‘That is the Duke threatening Cesario,’ said Milo, ‘because Cesario has won the heart of the Lady Olivia. That is, it is Marius as the Duke Orsino threatening Tessa as Cesario because Tessa/Cesario has won the heart of Marius as Olivia. Which is to say Marius is angry with Tessa because she has won the heart of Marius.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Milo. I have not won the heart of Marius. I tried once, some years ago, but did not succeed. We are just good friends, as the papers say.’

  Tessa castled on the Queen’s side.

  ‘Just as well, perhaps. Tell me, little one: did you ever know your mother?’

  ‘Auntie Maisie says she died giving birth to me.’

  ‘Do you never feel curious about her?’

  ‘Sometimes Auntie Maisie discourages me. She says my mother was a bad lot.’

  ‘Suppose… Raisley could find out more about her for you?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Raisley has knowledgeable friends.’

  Milo castled on the King’s side.

  ‘Why should they be knowledgeable about someone as unimportant as my mother?’

  ‘Perhaps she wasn’t as unimportant as your aunt makes out.’

  ‘I think I’d rather not know any more about her, thank you very much. There’s no possible point, after all this time. I’m very happy with Auntie Maisie, who’s done everything for me all my life. I wonder how they’re getting on at Regis Priory.’

  ‘Marius is being rehearsed. Next time you’ll be there too. At Bellhampton Park. But your part is so simple that it needs no rehearsal, which is why you don’t need to be there today.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to Bellhampton Park either. I hate horses.’

  ‘You won’t have much to do with them.’

  ‘I hate being anywhere near them.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Milo, ‘after your promise of obedience, you will do whatever is asked of you. Otherwise I shall never kiss you behind your knee.’

  ‘I had hoped you would do that this afternoon.’

  ‘This afternoon is not the proper time. The proper time will be after you have been to Bellhampton Park.’

  ‘Very well. But I don’t think you quite understand – about me and horses, I mean. I might actually faint or be ill, if I came too near to them. Or they might be disturbed. There was a time in Kensington Gardens–’

  ‘–Nevertheless, you will come to Bellhampton Park,’ said Milo. ‘Otherwise we might start telling you about your mother, Raisley and I, and you wouldn’t like that at all.’

  ‘Let my mother rest in peace.’

  ‘As it happens, your mother ended up very respectably. But before you were born…oh dear me. You remember what we were reading about the Empress Theo–’

  ‘–Be kind, Milo. Let her rest.’

  ‘Very well, little one. But you won’t make any more difficulties about coming to Bellhampton?’

  ‘None. But don’t say I didn’t warn you about what might happen. About my fainting and the rest.’

  ‘Would you like to hear more of Twelfth Night while you think about your move?’

  ‘No. We’ll be reading it with Mr Conyngham and Marius all these holidays.’

  ‘Not for quite that long. I rather think reading is almost at an end on this particular reading pa
rty. There are only a few days more until the race meeting at Bellhampton, and they will be very busy days.’

  ‘After that there should be time.’

  ‘After that you will find that everything is different. Not disagreeably so, but still…different. You will no longer be interested in playing the part of Master Cesario.’

  ‘I’m not particularly interested now. Cesario/Viola is in love with Marius/Orsino and is loved in turn by Marius/Olivia. This situation would have intrigued me some years ago, when I could have identified myself with Viola because I wanted Marius…as a brother, I told him, but really as a lover, young though we both were. But now such a situation is no longer of the slightest interest to me – unless you will step into the part of Orsino.’

  ‘I prefer Sebastian and Malvolio. Malvolio was right, you know. He detested stupidity and drunkenness and extravagance… But even if I did become Orsino, you would still cease to be interested in this play.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Your move, Tessa.’

  ‘Why should I no longer be interested in Twelfth Night, after I’ve been to Bellhampton? As I say, I’m not mad about it now, but I do think it’s a very pretty and melancholy piece, and if, as I say, you were to be the Duke Orsino–’

  ‘–It would still not be of the slightest importance to you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because you will have been made to confront certain realities. For a long time, if not forever, this confrontation will ruin your taste for fictions, even for those of the high quality of Twelfth Night, and no matter who may be playing the part of Orsino.’