Walcot

by Brian Aldiss

  Despite his brave words, Claude was but a shadow of his former self. ‘I hope the sight of Sonia won’t upset you too much,’ you said. You steadied yourself against the back of a chair. You were feeling slightly dizzy again.

  Verity regarded you. ‘You’re looking pale, Steve. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Could be worse.’

  ‘No, truthfully?’

  ‘I’m fine. I’m just worrying about Sonia’s appearance. We’ve grown away from each other. It’s been so long. She said she’d be here.’

  Your wife took your arm. ‘Let’s go upstairs and take a little rest. There’s plenty of time.’ She had weathered well. She still dyed her hair, approved by you, while her lined face preserved a grave, senior beauty.

  ‘Plenty of time?’ you found yourself saying, in a puzzled way. The dizziness persisted. You ascribed it to the tension of the approaching evening.

  Up in your suite, you studied yourself in the bathroom mirror; it was not an inspiring sight. For want of anything else on hand, you swallowed three Viagras with a glass of water. Although it was more than you had ever taken at one time, you hoped they would restore you.

  You and Verity were in bed together at teatime, while most of your guests were out enjoying the sights of London. You began fondling her in a way she knew well.

  ‘That’s enough of that, sweetie,’ she said. ‘You know I’m work-shy. Have a rest, you need it.’

  You rolled on to your back. ‘Thank God for bed, for you – and for Viagra!’

  ‘Not necessarily in that order, either.’

  You felt as pale as the pillow. Suddenly, you sat up, ‘You see, Walcot –’

  You were unable to complete the sentence. Your head fell back on the pillow.

  ‘Oh, Steve, dearest –’

  Later, both you and Verity were dressed smartly for the occasion. Gazing at yourself in the mirror, you said, ‘All dressed up and nowhere to go.’ The words came distantly.

  ‘Don’t be so self-critical. You look splendid,’ Verity said. ‘Besides we must look our best to welcome in the new century.’

  ‘And to welcome in Sonia.’

  Verity regarded you quizzically. ‘You’re worrying. You’re not well, have a swig of whisky. It’s Sonia, is it?’ She added with a smile, ‘Don’t want to call it all off, do you? We could creep out the back door and sneak off to Waterbeach …’

  ‘I’m fine, really. I just hope the next century is going to be less violent than this one has been. No, I’m fine, my love, though in Hamlet’s words, what does he say? “How ill it is about my heart.”’

  ‘You’re getting old, my darling. You need a drink, and you’re not the only one.’

  Soon there was a glass in your hand. But you stuck to the blessed San Pellegrino.

  I felt for you, Stephen. It was as if you were moving nearer, and seemed to know it.

  Ha, I didn’t know it. All my life I’ve been so damned ignorant.

  That’s better than the pretence of being all-knowing.

  There were more, and stronger, drinks to come, and dinner, and the arrival of Sonia. That Sonia had agreed to be present was in itself a triumph. Your sister’s change of name by deed poll to Sonia Gleesorro had brought her increased acclaim. Despite her age, she was now perched at the height of her career. She was a dominant Hollywood legend, a kind of trophy of time, a great exception, playing the role of Jocasta in the film Time of the Tyrant, based on Sophocles’ drama Oedipus Rex, and set in the Old West, to universal applause, even from those critics who despised the film’s happy ending.

  ‘Garbo and Brando in One!’ Variety had exclaimed.

  Among most of the Fielding clan, some nervousness prevailed. They were unsure how they should receive this luminary, whether as formidable Auntie Sonia, or as the lauded Movie Queen, the so-called Grandmother of the Movies. Rumours circulated about her malevolence. The clan was proud to have a living legend in the family, and was prepared to go through the rituals of obeisance before her; yet there was an undercurrent of suspicion that she might be, in the words of Ted Nash, ‘the poxiest party-pooper west of Warner Brothers’. To which his half-sister May had said that he meant east, not west. And Ted had said he was going the long way round the globe to try and find another such appalling pooper.

  So they all trooped down to the lounge of the Savoy, dressed in their best, to toast, with the Savoy’s most expensive champagne, the New Year and each other. You experienced the lights continually fading and flickering; no doubt the demand for electricity all over London was at its height. The world seemed to have gravitated to the capital to welcome in the Twenty-first Century.

  You could just hear the music. An orchestra played tunes from the era of Cole Porter, Gershwin and Irving Berlin. Many couples danced, often with strangers from other parties. You danced sedately with Verity; her hands were cold. Joyce and Paul danced, while their son trailed them rather forlornly round the dance floor. Euphoria was the name of the mood. Heaven, they were in Heaven, and the worries that beset them through the week had now become amazingly antique.

  After the party had enjoyed an eight-course dinner, the orchestra struck up again. A firework display started on the terrace overlooking the Thames. Coloured series of transient lights arched and banged over the waters, to be reflected below.

  Amid the hubbub, you were struck dumb. Like the flowing Thames outside, the onrush of the years suddenly overwhelmed you. What good fortune you had enjoyed, how wonderful life was, and here you were surrounded by everyone you loved and who, with luck, loved you, Verity above all. So wasn’t it enough? Were you not sated? Did a part of you not long for everything to cease? Suddenly, satisfyingly, to cease? To go while the going was good … You suppressed these unlucky lucubrations and turned to speak to Ronnie.

  The music stopped suddenly. The conductor held his baton low, and the orchestra then struck up again with a blast of In the Mood. Dazzling light burned from the night outside. Through the swing doors of the hotel entrance, where doormen bowed deep, appeared la Gleesorro’s contingent: two heavies leading, then an escort of three polished young men, indistinguishable from each other, then a lean, bearded man in a biscuit-coloured overall with a badge declaring him to be a paramedic, then Sonia herself, ablaze, absonant, abrupt, the ablative absolute among adults, then her lady’s maid, followed by two more heavies. All of the escorts in this contingent, except the paramedic, were in evening dress.

  You were amazed that Sonia had actually appeared, this amazing sister! Had she sold out, you wondered, or had she bought into an expensive – almost exclusive – legend? And did you feel up to meeting her – you with your sense of being somewhere else?

  Sonia was dressed in a white ivory, ankle-length gown, which trailed behind her. ‘Classical reference there’, said Claude, determined to exhibit no awe. He was drinking mineral water these days – mineral water diluted by Scotch. Her gown of eider down was chased with pearls and besieged by sequins. Sonia’s throat, stringy and thin, was enveloped and enhanced by a diamond choker. More pearls and silver glittered amid her ample, dark, dyed tresses. The very atmosphere opened to her progress.

  ‘Parbleu, it’s Mae West redivivus!’ said Verity in your ear. You patted her bottom reprovingly.

  Sonia moved forward like a great painted wooden effigy, like the Juggernaut worshipped by Hindus at Puri, or carried through the streets of Seville at Easter, conjuring up the fears and cheers of the crowd, and those obeisances which peasants pay to beauty or beatification. Aided by Botox, liposuction, and a few facial tucks, carefully painted, bekohled about the eyes – eyes freighted with artificial eyelashes, eyes strengthened by contact lenses – Gleesorro was a lay idol, was a picture, if not of youth, then of age’s pastiche of youth or, if not a pastiche, then at least a grand act of reclamation, of restoration, a fortification against the years that had been, that were to come. Look on my works, ye mighty! declared every inch of her. Looking close you saw her complexion resembled that of stale sponge
cake, where every pore was caked with powder. You could not help but admire the determination involved in this brilliant art of deception. Her smile was more dazzling, when she permitted it to emerge, like a credit card from its slot, than it had ever been in those days when she bore an imaginary hunchback, in a youth long forsaken, as she held out her hand to you. That hand, admittedly, was veined and stained by age, yet it had been powdered over and its nails dressed in scarlet shields.

  Evading the claw, you seized careful hold of your sister and blew a kiss very close to her encarmined lips. ‘Well done, darling,’ you said, speaking low in case she was also wired for sound. ‘I hardly recognized you.’

  ‘No surprise there, honey. I’m not the old me any more, don’t aim to be.’ The words were delivered in a croak. ‘Neurochemical change has taken place. The old me don’t wanna be recognized. Or frigging well remembered.’

  ‘Great to have you with us, anyway.’

  ‘You’ve sure changed – one with the illustrious dead, eh, Stephen?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, but thanks for coming. I’ll introduce you to the mob later.’

  ‘Don’t bother. I thought I’d like to maybe put in an appearance. I was passing through Europe any case.’ As she spoke, her dark, reinforced eyes were staring searchingly at your face, looking for something she could never find.

  ‘Anything I can get you immediately? Would you like to sit down?’

  ‘Woofie’s in the car, I didn’t wanna bring the creature in here. Mustn’t scare the punters. Woofie’s kinda like my costume jewellery. Part of me.’ She gave a dismissive gesture, slow but sure.

  ‘Woofie! What is it, cat or dog? Let me guess …’

  ‘Cheetah, fer God’s sake. Don’t you read the scandal sheets? It’s okay, Woofie’s tame. We keep her drugged, like she’s a fucking cheetah.’

  ‘Won’t she tear the car to bits?’

  ‘So what?’ This was spoken, as was the rest of the conversation, with Sonia erect and without facial expression, as if mummification had preceded mortality. You were trying to suppress the belief that there was something malevolent about this transformed sister, dry as a stick, rustling like distant leaves whenever she moved. Everything was pale, Gleesorro herself, her tongue, the stage through which she moved. Weird, you thought. You could not believe this was happening.

  You led her and her entourage to the rear lounge. Sonia walked slowly, at one stage muttering to herself. The entourage kept their distance, pace for pace. The lady’s maid muttered into a mobile phone. Relations and onlookers fell back as from a leper before the pair of you.

  You had come to an arrangement with the management; there was to be no charge for yours and Verity’s suite, as long as you consented to allow Sonia Gleesorro to remain within public gaze in the lounge for half an hour. The half-hour began with cameras clicking and flashes blinking. The Savoy had informed the press of her presence, to the advantage of their publicity machine. Sonia simply maintained a fixed smile, ignoring this intrusion.

  ‘Steve, come back to me,’ Verity was saying faintly. Her voice somehow vexed you. Nor could you tell where she was …

  Sonia had taken your arm, fobbing off her young men. You steadied her down three shallow steps. Maybe she was on something, you thought. You were confused, thinking for a moment you were marrying an unknown woman, in an unknown place.

  ‘Whole lotta fuss. All these creeps …’

  ‘Do you mind all this crap?’ you asked, between laughing and weeping, feeling bad.

  ‘Honey, it’s like I live and breathe this crap. While I’m wow factor material I need all of this crap same as a babe needs breast milk.’

  You admitted to yourself she had acquired a Californian accent. Or was it Brooklyn?

  ‘So my Gard, this is all the goddammed family? Kinda grown, hasn’t it? Which one’s your Aunt Violet you were so hot on?’

  ‘Oh, she’s dead, Sonia. Years ago. The old family’s dead. We are the old family now, you and I.’

  ‘So you’re meaning to say we’re – what’s that word again?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Great vocabulary you have. You never utter that word in Hollywood.’

  ‘Would you like to sit up, Steve?’ You imagined it was Sonia’s maid who spoke, as cameras flashed your images back to waiting computers.

  Sonia gestured with one hand. ‘We all gotta go some time, just don’t be in any hurry, make the best of it while you’re still warm. Whatever “the best of it” means. Fuck knows, I don’t.’

  Hardly thinking, you said, ‘You could give all this up. Come back and live a normal life with us.’

  She flashed a look of contempt. ‘You call it life? This is about the best thing that could happen. Give this up? Dream on, baby! Get a life!’

  ‘But a normal … normal –’

  ‘Life, you mean?’ Someone said it.

  ‘Who’re you talking to?’ Sonia’s thin lips hardly moved. ‘Normal sucks in my book, hon. I’m worth a million, every breath I take. Why would I want to come back here, of all places?’ She was using her mother’s old phrase.

  Sorrow filled you, for her, for yourself. This was the point life had brought you to.

  You might be old; you could be dead; your sister had become embalmed in a kind of eminence. You could almost hear the scornful voice of your old Blackall friend Caleb saying, ‘Get real, Steve, don’t sell your soul!’ Caleb was there in the crowd, with a camera. You thought you saw him. Then he was gone.

  Sonia had seated herself on a kind of throne that had been prepared for her. She lowered herself stiffly into it while her three brilliant young men held their breath. When she was gone, they would lose their jobs. Where else could they find such well-paid humiliation?

  Verity hovered nearby, half-amused; you could not read her expression. Although the family gathered round, and various paparazzi, you noted that many other hotel guests turned away indifferently, or maybe in envy. The smartly-dressed heavies ranged themselves about the throne, unsmiling, occasionally waving away any camera fiend who got too close. The three identical young men hustled about, fetching unheeded water and cocktails and olives and canapés. The maid, to whom Verity said, sarcastically, ‘Run short of gold and frankincense and myrrh, have they?’, lingered behind her mistress, erect and poker-faced, ready to repair any defences that might need it.

  All this attention, more ostentatious than Royalty would have received. It made you dizzy.

  ‘Sonia, I can’t believe it! How can you bear all this fuss?’

  She gave you a quick glance before resuming her stony smile ahead. ‘It’s okay, honey, it won’t last. I can sure tell you one thing, fame’s better than being fucking unknown.’

  ‘But this excess of fame.’

  ‘Ferget it. I go for excess every time. Famous, you can get your revenge on everyone.’

  You thought she had no real wish to communicate, that she was divorced from common feeling, but you were mistaken. After a silence, she said, ‘Remember the unreal atmosphere they brought us up in? Remember all the pretence? Remember that phantom kid of Mother’s? – Valerie? yeah, Valerie! – well, that was good training for all this. I’m their stupid fucking pretensions writ large.’

  She had no need to explain who the ‘they’ were of which she spoke. She turned away.

  ‘Come back,’ you begged. ‘I hear what you’re saying, but you are a success in your own right. Don’t knock it. I envy you in a way.’

  ‘Don’t bother to pretend. Envy works both ways. Think I don’t read your contempt of me? You, a jailbird, Steve! Come on!’

  ‘Stop it! I’m just astonished at how you’ve changed. And aren’t you imprisoned too?’

  ‘“Bird in a gilded cage” kinda thing.’ She spoke without interest, turning her head slightly to accept something – a pill? – from her maid. ‘How much you’ve changed! You’re ashen, Christ, the walking dead, us both. We got that in common.’ Lights were dimming again.

  You frowned, an
gry with yourself. ‘It’s difficult to talk. We’re so public here …’ You kept thinking to yourself that, unbelievably, you were brother and sister.

  While Sonia was engaged with her maid, you turned to the paramedic in the biscuit overall. ‘How is Sonia’s health?’

  ‘Classified.’ The word emerged as if chewed.

  ‘Look pal, I’m her brother. Haven’t seen her in years. I don’t want to make anything of it. I just want to know how she is.’

  He put his long, neat head down and regarded you from under an eyebrow. ‘Think Grade One Alzheimer’s plus Obraxis symptoms, okay?’

  ‘What are Albraxers symptoms?’

  Expressionlessly, the paramedic said, ‘Obraxis. Obraxis. Occasional outbursts of mental cruelty. You a candidate? You’re about right age.’

  ‘I’m okay, I think. Just faint.’ You could not make out his face clearly.

  A card was produced all of a sudden, like a conjuring trick. ‘Any problems, call me. Runs in families. Private treatment. Total confidentiality.’

  ‘Thanks.’ But the man had already turned away.

  ‘Look more pleasant, will you?’ Sonia was saying to her maid. She turned to you with a gradual move of her body through forty-five degrees. She was chewing.

  ‘I wanna meet your current spouse, Stan. Vanity? Valerie? Verity! Yeah, introduce me to your Verity!’

  ‘It’s Steve, remember? Like we used to be brother and sister.’

  Verity was her usual witty and pleasant self. ‘I loved your latest movie, Sonia. The sea certainly looked good.’

  ‘Fulsome praise indeed,’ croaked Sonia. ‘They warmed up the whole goddamned ocean for that one shot.’ She emitted a controlled laugh. Verity laughed. You laughed. The young men, standing apart, who had not heard the joke, also laughed.

  The film to which Verity was referring was Sonia Gleesorro’s greatest triumph – an adaptation of Euripides’ play Iphigenia in Aulis, entitled in this case, Beauty on the Beach, the summer mega block buster which had also been granted grudging critical success.

  The scene opens on a grey dawn, grey as in a dream, pale as in a coffin. The sea is calm tonight, the tide is full, the moon lies fair. At anchor rides the Grecian fleet, becalmed. The viewpoint drifts to shore, where Agamemnon’s army is encamped. A camp fire gives the one quick tongue of brightness to a sombre screen. Men emerge in armour next, to stand about their swords, awaiting dawn. This is the brotherhood who plan to fight the Trojan War.