by Nik Cohn
His trademark was everywhere. According to The Wall Street Journal, three thousand six hundred and sixty-two products carried the King’s endorsement, his image appeared on fifty-four thousand eight hundred and thirty-three billboards, and he commanded more than five million Loyalists. Death was a billion-dollar industry, many times over, and if a man walked from Cape Cod to Seattle, crossing America in an unswerving line, it was estimated that he would pass the monogram KD, on the average, once in every 3.227 miles.
Just as Seaton had predicted, Meet the King broke all records.
At the very beginning, it’s true, the new format was received with a certain reserve and nervousness, and most of the early entries came from undesirables. But the doubts were quickly resolved. When the viewers saw how ecstatic the meetings proved, just how deeply the subjects were pleased and moved, all their inhibitions crumbled. They thought of the thrill, they thought of the stardom, they thought of the whole nation watching. Eddie stretched out his hand, and they rushed to take their turn.
Each performance was different. Location, mood and technique were all tailored to the subject’s own personality, and Eddie never looked or acted the same way twice running. Sometimes he was tender and sometimes terrible, sometimes seductive, sometimes evangelical, sometimes all these things at once: ‘Whatever the subject truly desires, deep down in his most secret dreams, that is what I give him,’ said the King.
From now on, Death proceeded in unbroken splendour and tranquillity, and no more traumas marred the even rhythm of her days. She was a universal fun fair, a never-ending Mardi Gras. Wherever she went, she brought release, and comfort, and life.
Five years passed, and gradually the performer turned into a deity. So long as he watched over the multitudes, they felt safe and free, and they relied on him absolutely. Hallowed by repetition, his every move took on the weight of scripture. He was all-seeing, all-knowing. His face at the window belonged to a father confessor.
Success had not changed him.
Even though he had become a godhead, he did not cease to be humble. He did not grow too big to say Please and Thank You, and he raised his hat every time he met a lady. He still did not smoke or drink alcoholic liquors, he had no truck with naked women, he said his prayers on his knees every night. Above all, he never wavered in his sense of gratitude. ‘I owe it all to my friends,’ said King Death. ‘Everything I am today, America has made me.’
Nothing lasts for ever. One morning, shortly after the unveiling, Eddie was sitting in the attic and watching his reflection in the mirror, when all of a sudden he noticed a grey hair above his left ear.
Downstairs in the perfumed garden, Seaton was bowling leg breaks and googlies against the gymnasium wall. Profoundly disturbed, the performer fingered his crucifix and stood deep in shadow, so that his face was made invisible. ‘I’m getting older,’ he said.
‘What’s wrong with that?’ asked the Englishman.
‘It isn’t natural,’ Eddie replied. ‘Leastways, it never happened before.’
This was perfectly true. Throughout his career, he had been ageless, and his image had shifted from moment to moment, according to circumstances and the needs of his subjects. But now, when he glimpsed himself in the goldfish pond, his reflection was fixed and inescapable – he had become a man in middle age, well-preserved but weary, with faint lines around his eyes, a slight but unmistakable thickening at his waist, a certain sluggishness of touch and tread.
That night, as he lay in bed, he found that he could not breathe. His lungs were choked with pollen and the scents of dead flowers, his skull burst with unremembered songs. Across the room, the shaggy lion was curled up beyond the mirror, quietly licking its paws, and Eddie coughed up orchids, butterflies, packets of rotting leaves.
He felt as though his blood had ceased to flow, had congealed and curdled in his veins. The radio played Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, and he dragged himself to the window, desperate for air.
Opening his suitcase, he laid out the contents by moonlight. But when he began to polish his pearl-handled pistols, something small and dark and shiny flew down from the minarets and brushed, ice-cold, against his upraised throat. Then he sank to his knees, just like one of his own subjects.
For five years, ever since his farewell journey to Tupelo, he had been holding this moment at bay. He had cut off all memories, drowned all yearnings, abandoned himself utterly to Death. On the train, in this attic, even in the act of completion itself, he had made himself a blank, insensate.
His only weakness lay in sleep. Every night, as soon as he shut his eyes, the lion came creeping to his side and tempted him with marzipan, liquorice, scented jasmine twirls. It whispered in his ear, nibbled at his fingers, nuzzled in his groin. On the flimsiest of pretexts, it coaxed him from the sanctuary of his bedroom and lured him down into the labyrinth, where it deserted him in the darkest, most twisted corridors.
In self-defence, Eddie forced himself to remain awake, fifty, eighty, a hundred hours at a stretch. But in the end even this did not work. Casting aside all modesty and secrecy, the lion took to visiting him in broad daylight, and nothing that Eddie could do would make it disappear.
Thereafter, they became inseparable. Month after month, year after year, they travelled side by side and the lion never ceased its insinuations. Wherever Eddie moved, it lay in wait, simpering and fawning. It fluttered its eyelashes, mocked him in his most solemn moments. Even when he was in the very act of completion, it laid its lips close against his ear and whispered indecent suggestions, with a tongue that tickled and quivered like an aspen leaf.
Eddie had put up a most stern resistance. Whatever he felt inside, he gave no outward sign and his eyes remained as empty, as opaque and inhuman as ever. He took shelter in his dice, his suitcase, the angle of his hat brim; he hid himself in his reflection. Somehow or other, he endured.
But now the struggle was ended. In the instant that he discovered the grey hair, the performer knew that he was defeated, and when morning came, there was dirt beneath his fingernails, a tiny yellow spot on his chin.
Despairing, he hastened away to the gymnasium, to lose himself in gunsmoke. A dry wind stirred the oleanders, hyenas cackled in the shrubbery, the swimming pool was full of moths. Mantequilla spat behind the pagoda, and Eddie whirled and fired and fired again.
And he missed.
For the first time ever, when he blazed from the hip, his bullets did not automatically find their target. Nine out of ten were flawless. But the tenth flew out through the window and slaughtered a hummingbird.
The professional hung his head and went in search of Seaton, who was hard at work in the library, pouring over a sheaf of yellowed documents, by the dwindling light of an oil lamp.
Of late, the Englishman’s involvement with King Death had greatly diminished. His dream had been fulfilled, the image was complete. There were no more great mountains left for him to climb and day-to-day business bored him. So he handed over all his practical duties to a team of subordinates, and he sank into semi-retirement.
Henceforth, he did not move beyond the gates of the mansion. Shuffling through the gardens in his velveteen slippers, he affected pince-nez and snuff, and he decided to dedicate the rest of his life to scholarship. Without the slightest regret, he turned his back on the screens, forgot all about the families and set out to create the definitive statistical record, once and for all time, of cricket’s golden age, 1895–1914.
Inside the library, he buried himself beneath a vast, collapsing mountain of press clippings, scorecards and decomposing Wisdens. Here he laboured far through the night, compiling charts and graphs without end, for all the world like an astrologer or alchemist, a keeper of secret mysteries, and he lived entirely through Trumper, Ranji and CB Fry, just as he had once lived through Death.
Entering this sanctum, Eddie felt like an intruder and took off his hat in deference. He cleared him
self a small space among the archives and Seaton looked up at him absent-mindedly, lost in tender reveries of Jessop at The Oval, 1902. ‘I am finished,’ said the performer.
‘How come?’
‘I have lost my gift.’
At this, Seaton removed his pince-nez and pushed aside his papers. In an instant, the scholar was changed back into a manager, and once again he became a fallen choirboy. ‘Explain yourself,’ he said.
‘I’m all used up. My resources are exhausted, and the time has come for me to make my ending.’
‘But that cannot be,’ said the Englishman.
‘Why can’t it?’
‘Death is still in need of you. If you desert her now, she will fall to pieces, and everything that you have achieved together will be destroyed.’
‘You exaggerate.’
‘I only wish that I did. But I know the way that images work. The moment that your back is turned, I give you my guarantee, all hell will be unleashed.’
‘In what respect?’
‘Your public would despair. Over the years, you have become such a habit, such a deep-down addiction, that they would be completely lost without you. They would have no outlet, no means of release. All their passions and hungers would be bottled up inside, to fester and turn sick. And in their panic, they would reach out blindly for substitutes.’
‘Substitutes?’
‘Other professionals,’ Seaton said. ‘In the circumstances, the networks would have no choice but to replace you, rig up some new line in performers and completions, or else there would be a national explosion.’
‘Having retired myself, I could not object,’ said Eddie, grave but magnanimous.
‘That’s typical of your big heart. But sometimes generosity can be misplaced. The world is full of cheapness and deceit. And if you were no longer on hand to protect her, true Death would surely perish.’
‘How come?’
‘She would be vulgarised, perverted, betrayed. A hundred to one, her new practitioners would not share your own high principles and would sell her straight down the river. In pursuit of ratings and a fast buck, they would forget her real meaning and riddle her with gimmicks. Without you to rescue her, she would be raped of all dignity and honour, and in no time she would be reduced to a freak show.’
‘Just like before King Death,’ Eddie said, downcast.
‘Exactly. She would be overrun by thugs and opportunists, blood-crazed amateurs, and before you knew what had happened, she would be right back where she started, drowning in the sewers.’
A second grey hair had appeared above the performer’s ear. Sick at heart, he sensed that Seaton was right, and he turned his face towards the outer darkness, beyond the guttering oil lamp: ‘I’m tired,’ he said.
‘But you must go on regardless.’
‘I am no longer worthy.’
‘But Death cannot let you go.’
Eddie did not argue; silently, he accepted his duty and went on his way. But it was all that he could do to drag himself back inside his attic, where he slumped face down across his bed and promptly fell into a deep, drugged slumber, filled with scorpions.
When he woke up, it was night again and he discovered that the lion had chewed up his coat, his hat and his black gloves while he slept.
5
Another year went past and King Death proceeded in unbroken triumph. He rode the Deliverance Special, he travelled the nation, he presented his profile at the window. His revenues and ratings had never been higher, and America was content.
At the end of each week, he made his ritual completion, just as if nothing was changed. Though his work no longer brought him joy or fulfilment, he went through the familiar motions and nobody seemed to notice any difference.
Then one day, without warning, his magic deserted him. In the stockyards of Chicago, his subject knelt at his feet, ready for absolution. But when the moment of intermingling came, nothing happened. Eddie’s eyes did not sparkle or grow incandescent; the subject was not transfigured. Instead, he suddenly turned green and looked seasick, and he tried to scramble to his feet. He raised his hands to cover his face, he made a noise like gargling. In wild panic, he grabbed hold of Eddie’s knees, almost toppling him, and the performer was forced to shoot him blindly, once, twice, three times, before he would let go.
Back on board the Special, Eddie looked into the mirror and saw only flabbiness, squalor, decay. Death had abandoned him, once and for ever, and when he took out his gun, to shoot the dead eyes of his image, his hand was shaking so badly that he could hardly squeeze the trigger.
From now on, completion became a nightmare. Each rendition seemed worse, more botched and sordid than the one before. However hard he tried, his eyes refused to function and his subjects would not surrender. Instead of swooning in ecstasy, they cowered, screamed, befouled themselves. When he reached out his hand, to bring them beatitude, they bit it.
Eddie could not rest, could not find a moment’s peace. As soon as he closed his eyes, even for a few seconds, the lion came creeping up behind him and licked him in his private places.
Gradually, he began to fall into disrepair. His uniform was stained and frayed, he no longer cleaned his equipment, and he wiped his nose on his sleeve. There was a three-day stubble on his chin, his eyes were red-rimmed and sunken. Finally, he took to alcohol.
Alone in his skid-row bedroom, as the Special rolled relentlessly across the flatlands of Ohio and Missouri, he slugged directly from the bottle and did not stop until he was sick. His grease paint and make-up ran, melted by cold sweat. Mascara and rouge got into his eyes, and his suitcase burst open in his hand, scattering its treasures all over the floor.
He lapsed into semi-consciousness and found himself in an infinite desert, where the lion knelt in prayer. Blood flowed from its open mouth and spread across the sand in a translucent lake. Its lips were soft as swansdown, they tasted of vanilla essence. Sighing, it lay down in its blood and whispered, and Eddie crept helplessly into its embrace.
When he came round, his hair was so grey that he was forced to blacken it with boot polish. He had developed jowls and halitosis, he had to wear a corset and, with every week that passed, his completions grew more distressing.
Now that his subjects had learned to struggle, tenderness and dignity were no longer possible, and he dispatched them like a butcher. Blood splashed his hands and uniform; bodies collapsed in poses of grotesque distortion, with gaping mouths and eyes full of loathing. Sometimes, so fiercely did they resist him that the performer was not able to finish them cleanly, and they continued to writhe and blubber, twitching like maimed animals.
The sun rose in Colorado and set in North Dakota, rose again in Maine and set in Mississippi. Outside his window, the brass bands still played, the majorettes pranced, the crowds cried out his name in worship. But Eddie did not hear them, was aware of nothing beyond his bedroom. All day long, he stared out through the smoked glass, sightless. America passed by him in a blur, and his face was wet with tears.
Serene in the next compartment, Seaton lived only for cricket, and Death never crossed his mind. From time to time, in the middle of the night, he was awakened by a sudden burst of gunfire, and a ravaged, distorted profile showed itself at his window, mouthing obscenities. A bottle smashed against the wall, Eddie ground his fist in the shattered glass, blood seeped underneath the door. But Seaton gave no sign of recognition, his face did not move. Rolling over to face the wall, he took refuge in thoughts of Lords and went straight back to sleep.
Periodically, the Special came to a halt and the partners stopped off for a few days in Tierra de Ensueños, to refresh themselves.
During the last few years, the perfumed garden had been left to moulder and was completely overrun by weeds. Vermin had taken over the labyrinth, the windows were blotted out by ivy. One by one, the roses had withered and died, and the whol
e mansion stank of rot.
For the most part, Eddie kept to his attic, Seaton to his library, and their paths did not cross. One afternoon, however, when the performer was too drunk to resist, the lion lured him out into the gardens and they lost themselves in the suffocating jungles.
The paths were so overgrown as to be almost impassable, and Eddie had to carve his way through with a scimitar. Hyenas cackled in the monkey trees, reptiles basked and grinned in the stagnant ponds. Pouring sweat, Eddie waded knee-deep through a fetid swamp, which sucked him down like quicksand, and every time that he paused to catch his breath, the lion sniggered behind his back.
At last, arriving at the pagoda, he came into a small space of sunlight, filled with orchids and pink flamingos, where Seaton sat huddled in his Bath chair, reading Wisden.
Eddie stood with lowered head, shuffling, swaying, like a bull just before it falls to its knees. His eyes were bloodshot, there was a loud buzzing in his ears and, after a few seconds, he spat out a slug of yellow rheum, which landed with a splat at Seaton’s feet.
The Englishman looked up from his studies and saw a tramp, a stumbling skid-row bum, with matted hair and holes in his boots. ‘Good afternoon,’ said Seaton. ‘Can I help you?’
‘It is your fault. You are the one to blame.’
‘I’m afraid that I don’t understand.’
‘Everything that used to be pure and true has been perverted, and you have turned me into scum. Just to keep yourself amused, you have taken God’s own beauty and covered it with filth.’
‘I am sorry,’ said the Englishman. ‘I meant it for the best.’
The sun beat down hot and hard, and the lion drank deeply from a fountain, to cool itself. Refreshed, it reached up and whispered in Eddie’s ear, and the performer picked Seaton up by the throat.
Mechanically, without any sign of passion, the Englishman was shaken back and forth, like a rag doll with half its stuffing spilled, until he went blue and began to gurgle. His eyes rolled up, he stuck out his tongue; in a few more seconds, he would have been defunct. But Eddie was too weary, too heartsick and drained to make the effort. When the crucial moment arrived, he was paralysed by loathing and shame, and his hands went limp.