by Nik Cohn
He tried not to be embittered. Plighted to Death as he was, committed through and through, he knew that her needs must always come before his own and he was thankful to be sacrificed in her service. Nonetheless, he could not help but feel claustrophobic, displaced, and the golden lion haunted him nightly.
Prowling through the tangled undergrowth, sneaking up behind him as he slept, it purred and whispered and sighed, murmuring sweet nothings, and the professional found himself drawn into the strangest and most disturbing caresses. Hand in paw, he abandoned himself to the labyrinth, the echoes, the never-ending mirrors, and gradually he was led deep underground.
Far below the mansion, in a grotto hung with pink and emerald stalactites, he came upon a limpid pool, where the waters were as thick and smooth as molasses. The lion relieved him of his uniform and he slid beneath the surface. Immediately, his limbs grew lax and impossibly heavy, and he could make no movement. Floating on his back, he drifted off downstream and felt that he was drowning in golden syrup.
At the first light of dawn, awakening in a swamp of cold sweat, Eddie crept downstairs on tiptoe, climbed inside the black limousine and was driven away to Tupelo.
He was not running away; professional pride forbade him from betraying his trust, to shirk his destiny in flight. But he wished to say farewell. One last time, he yearned to touch the sidewalk, lurk in the shadows, breathe in the carbonised air that had made him.
Though he gave no outward sign, this pilgrimage passed in great anxiety, in case he should find that his past had been changed or obliterated, and by the time he entered the city limits and arrived upon the block where he was born, his fingers were tightly twined in the chain of his silver crucifix, his hat was pulled down right across his eyes.
He need not have worried. The moment he opened his window and let the air flood in, he knew that everything was just the same as always: the afternoon heat, the drowsiness, the slow decay; the smell of bacon grease and collards; the dust, and the music playing far away; the beat-up Chevrolet parked outside the pool hall; the faded colours, the sweat-damp walls; even the busted neon S on the sign outside The Golden Slipper.
Down on the corner, the neighbourhood dudes were slouched against a wall of one hundred graffiti, shooting craps. Most of them were dressed in the style of King Death but, when the performer passed among them, they gave no sign of recognition. They did not shriek or riot, like everybody else, but stared him up and down, impassive, and he did the same in return. They spat upon the sidewalk, so did he. Two small girls in pigtails were sucking popsicles on a fire escape, a radio was playing Honky-Tonk Angels behind a scarlet door. Eddie moved along.
Slow as a creeping shadow, savouring every inch, he travelled down the block, past the pool hall, past The Golden Slipper. Across the street, upstairs in The Playtime Inn, he was aware that someone was watching him from behind a lace-curtained window.
Beneath a street-lamp, he paused and rested. With eyes half-shut, he sensed the pavement hot and sticky beneath his boots, the silken dresses flashing pink and gold and silver in the depths of the saloon. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck, and his throat was sandpaper dry.
A fat blue fly settled on the tip of his nose, distracting him, and he set his face towards the Chinese laundry, where he hoped to spend a few last minutes in solitude, out of the heat and glare, waiting for a stranger.
However, when he reached the doorway and looked inside, he found that his place was already occupied. Lost in the shadows, which had once been his own, there stood a man in a trench coat.
So profound were the shadows that Eddie could not make out any details of it. The shiny tips of the man’s shoes protruded just a fraction into the light and, from the ease and certainty of their stance, there could be no doubt that this was their established territory, their professional pitch, which no one else might share.
Eddie was powerless. Though his mouth was filled with bile, he could only bow his head and accept the facts. He did not belong here, this was no longer his rightful home. In becoming King Death, an image, he had lost his place for ever.
His limousine was waiting at the corner, and he disappeared inside. Expressionless, he rolled up the windows as tight as they would go, to shut out all sound and smell of the sidewalk, and he turned back towards the mansion, Tierra de Ensueños, which owned him.
‘We have come a long way,’ said Seaton.
‘We certainly have,’ said Mort Mossbacher.
‘From a single grain of sand, we have built a mighty mountain. Though our path was strewn with numberless obstacles and setbacks, which others might have found insurmountable, we battled on regardless. Deep down in our hearts, we knew that God was on our side. Therefore we would not take No for an answer, and our faith never faltered.’
‘And?’ said J Jones Dickerson.
‘And now we are rewarded. Truth and justice stand triumphant and, naturally, our hearts are swelled with pride.’
‘But?’ said J Jones Dickerson.
‘But pride is not the same as smugness and, just because we have performed a miracle, we must not grow complacent. Our duties are not finished, the saga is by no means complete. When the first flush of jubilation fades, we will see that freedom is not an ending, but a fresh beginning, and far from resting on our laurels, still greater tasks await us.’
J Jones Dickerson looked at Mort Mossbacher, and Mort Mossbacher looked at J Jones Dickerson, and neither of them spoke. Side by side on a cold stone banquette, they sucked their jujubes in silence.
Seaton was buried in his hammock and all that was visible above the rim was the soft swell of his belly, the tips of his stockinged toes, the lazy curl of his cigar smoke. Underneath the surface, however, the Englishman was beaming. Pomegranates, passion fruit and figs were scattered across his lap in wild profusion; his Wisden lay open at Gregory, McDonald and F.E Woolley (Lords, 1921). Beatific, he munched on a Hershey bar.
For a time, he was content to muse and enjoy his invisibility, while his associates were kept waiting down below. Then he sat up straight and fixed them with his softest, blandest smile. ‘I have a dream,’ he said.
‘And?’ said J Jones Dickerson.
‘I call it democracy.’
‘What does it mean?’ asked Mort Mossbacher.
‘In the simplest terms, it means that Death steps down from her pedestal and is made universal, so that all men may share in her. Until this moment, if she has had a fault, it’s been a certain taint of elitism. Her televised subjects have all been famous, rich or in some sense glamorous. Meanwhile, Mister Average has been left out in the cold.’
‘He has not complained,’ said Mort Mossbacher.
‘That is beside the point – injustice is injustice, even if no one notices, and the time has come to restore the balance. Death was not created for snobbery or false distinction; she belongs to each of us equally. In the words of the King himself, she is the birthright of every true American, regardless of colour, class or creed.’
‘And?’ said J Jones Dickerson.
‘And that inheritance must be observed,’ said Seaton sternly, sucking on a nectarine. ‘So long as she was outlawed, there was an excuse for keeping her rationed. But now that she is free, her largesse requires no restrictions. Everyone who desires her must receive his or her rightful turn.’
Once again, J Jones Dickerson looked at Mort Mossbacher, and Mort Mossbacher looked at J Jones Dickerson. Mangoes, oleanders and crystalline chandrasekhars formed a technorama canopy above their heads, hemming them in, and everywhere they turned, they found themselves surrounded by unknown animals, staring at them through the undergrowth.
Upstairs in the attic, the radio played the Long Gone Lonesome Blues and Eddie began to dress. He put on a new shirt, a new waistcoat, a pair of spotless new gloves. Dutiful, he presented his profile at the window: ‘I have a dream,’ said Seaton again. ‘To be precis
e, I call it Meet the King.’
‘Well?’ said J Jones Dickerson.
‘I picture King Death on board the Deliverance Special, ceaselessly moving back and forth across the nation, and as he travels, he smiles, he waves, he keeps tender watch on his homeland. At the end of each week, he pulls in at a resting place, dismounts and shakes hands with a chosen American, live on HBLF. Then he returns straightaway to his carriage, and once more the Special rolls on.’
‘What American?’ asked Mort Mossbacher.
‘Any American,’ replied the Englishman. ‘Anyone and everyone who cares to apply. All requests will be sifted and carefully considered, and the honour each week will go to the subject deemed most worthy.’
‘But what if no one applies?’
‘That is not possible,’ said Seaton, spitting out a peach pip. ‘You have seen for yourselves how the King is feted and pursued. Every time that he so much as shows his silhouette behind a window, the multitudes go berserk. So just imagine how they would feel if they had the chance to meet him in person, to look in his eyes and share his deepest secrets, while the whole nation watched.’
‘They would be excited,’ Mort Mossbacher admitted.
‘Excited? They would be ecstatic; they would be thrilled beyond their wildest dreams. For such a moment, they would sell their very souls.’
‘Yes,’ said the Commander, ‘but what if they get frightened?’
‘Why should they? How could they fear that their King would do them harm? Has he not proved his love and protection a hundred times, and do they not trust him absolutely? Wherever he leads, whatever he proposes, they will follow without question.’
‘And?’ said J Jones Dickerson.
‘And rightly so,’ said Seaton. ‘For he will give them stardom, which is the greatest thrill of all, and then they will be fulfilled.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. They will come flocking in their thousands and their millions, and our only problem will be to hold the demand at bay. Before the first year is out, I give you my word, Meet the King will be established as the greatest, best-loved and biggest-grossing spectacle that man has ever seen, in the history of the world and show business.’
Far above, the performer watered his geraniums and watched. His suitcase was already packed, his hat and coat were waiting by the door. Down the hill in the smog-bound valley, the Deliverance Special gleamed brand new, primed and hissing at its platform. ‘I have a dream; a vision of Death unconfined,’ said the Englishman.
‘And?’ said J Jones Dickerson.
‘I call it America.’
Trumpets sounded a fanfare and Jerry McGhee stepped out from behind a green velvet curtain. With eyes downcast, he began to walk very slowly down a long sweeping stairway, and everybody cheered.
When he reached the bottom, he was received by a man in a tuxedo, who pumped his hand and slapped his back. Long blonde girls with long blonde legs kissed him on the cheek, a battery of cameras pinned him against a shimmering screen. Everywhere that he looked, he saw white flashing teeth.
The man in the tuxedo began to talk very fast, grinning and gesticulating, words and movements that Jerry did not understand. The noise and dazzle bewildered him; the blaze of the arc lights made him dizzy. Trapped in giant close-up, he could not remember why he was here, and his only clear sensation was the need to empty his bladder.
On board a magic roundabout, hung with a myriad of twinkling fairy lights, he was presented with a candyfloss pink Cadillac, a holiday home in Nassau, fifty thousand dollars in bonds and a hundred shares in King Death Consolidates, and after each donation, there was another flourish of trumpets, a redoubled roar of applause. Sweat dripped into his eyes, half-blinding him, and soft fingers tugged at his sleeve. Not wishing to seem ungracious, he opened his mouth and tried to smile, and when his vision cleared, he found himself surrounded by family and friends.
Martha was holding his hand, looking elsewhere; Charley Mitchell, Barney Brannigan and big Jim Haggard were smoking cigars and smiling past his shoulder. Cornered, Jerry blinked and looked vacant, as if they were strangers.
His daughter Sharon flung her arms around his neck and made his cheek wet with tears. Everybody stamped and shouted and whistled, and the fanfares rose to a crescendo. Then Jerry bowed his head and was led away by the long blonde girls, out of the light into darkness. The cheering died away, and he was on his own.
At first, he thought that he must have fainted, or perhaps that he was already complete. But then he felt a gentle purring underneath him, a distant swishing and hum, and he understood that he was seated in the back of a black limousine, passing through the night streets of the city, on his way to Meet the King.
All of a sudden, he felt sick.
His stomach lurched and clenched, his mouth was filled with acid. When the limousine slowed at a junction he tried to unwind the windows, tried to open the doors. But the windows were jammed, all the doors were locked. So he knew that he was powerless, and at last he believed that this was a true story.
Originally, when he had sent in his application, he had done so out of bravado, simply because Barney Brannigan had dared him to. He had not dreamed that he might really be chosen or, if he was, that anything serious would come of it. The King was so olympian, so remote and absolute – the thought of ever meeting him, of receiving his touch in person, was more than Jerry could conceive.
Even when his name was drawn from the black slouch hat, his imagination stayed frozen. Seeing his picture in the papers, his image transmitted on HBLF, he dismissed it all as a pantomime, some kind of mirage, which would dissolve at any moment, and he neither thought nor felt.
Within this charade, he had become a seven-day celebrity. He had been flown away in a private aeroplane, lodged in a penthouse, photographed with senators and movie stars, gorged on caviar, soused on champagne, showered with treats and symbols of every description. Wherever he appeared, people asked him for his autograph; each time he glanced at a screen, he saw his own reflection; and twenty-four hours a day, sleeping or awake, he had been cushioned by milling, jabbering crowds.
But now he was alone. For the first time since his ascension, he was removed from noise and light and all diversions, and there was no space left for evasion. Inside this limousine, King Death was inescapable, and Jerry trembled. Like any other fan about to meet his idol, he was overwhelmed by shyness and a sense of most abject unworthiness, and he curled up tight like a foetus.
Just then, the limousine drew to a halt outside Central Station and the doors were flung open. One of the blondes took his hand, gentle but not to be resisted, and she drew him forth on to the sidewalk, into another onslaught of flash bulbs and blinding lights. Jerry winced, shied, threw up his hands to shelter his eyes. Stumbling, he appeared to genuflect, and everybody cheered.
He tried to speak. Though his words made no sound, swamped by fanfares and applause, he explained that there must be some mistake, that he was not adequate, that he had a weak heart. But the cameras did not stop rolling, the blondes went right on smiling. No matter what he said, the cheering never faltered.
When at last there was silence, he found himself in the middle of the station concourse, alone once more, lost in a maze of fancy mosaic tiling. In aerial long shot, he looked exceedingly small and helpless, and the concourse seemed infinite.
There were cameras everywhere, on the roof, on the balustrades, lurking in every doorway, and Jerry was powerless to resist them. For a moment, he made as if to start running. Then his shoulders sagged and he sank to his knees.
Nervousness had caused him to sweat and his Brylcreemed hair had come unslicked, flopping forward over his eyes. As he knelt, he shivered and twitched, and he bit at his lips until they bled.
One by one, the cameras crept out of their holes. Slowly, stealthily, they closed in from every direction, circling their
subject like wolves around firelight, and Jerry was too weakened to struggle. He was blinded by the brightness, dizzied by the heat, and his mind went blank. But when the cameras had come so near that they were almost touching him, he produced a steel-toothed comb from his back trouser pocket and began to brush the hair out of his eyes. Methodically, with infinite care, he constructed a smooth wavy pompadour, and it glistened in the arc lights.
Solemn music began to play. The lighting went soft and rosy pink, the cameras drew back respectfully and, just as Jerry was perfecting the final lock, a long dark shadow passed across his face.
King Death presented his left profile.
Stretching out his right hand, he placed it about three inches above the subject’s bowed head, as if in absolution, and Jerry went still. The comb slipped from his fingers, the unfinished lock curled back across his forehead and, though he did not wish to, he raised his face towards the light, the soft-focus radiance, that streamed from Eddie’s eyes.
Then King Death almost smiled.
And Jerry melted.
Like fudge exposed to the sun, he went all soft and sticky, and he did not feel anything. He existed, no more than that, and he was at home.
He opened his mouth, he closed his eyes. Head back, throat upraised, he offered himself without shame or the least regret. Once again, a shadow passed across his face and, as it did so, he remembered that he still owed Barney Brannigan five dollars for his entry fee, a debt which would not now be repaid. In the final close-up, this thought caused him to smile.
Death embarked upon her golden age.
Enshrined aboard the Deliverance Special, the King toured the nation without rest and, everywhere that he passed, his subjects knelt at his feet. Fireworks lit up the sky, cannonades and church bells rang out together. The multitudes bayed in adulation, and the performer gave them his blessing, far away behind smoked glass.