by John Gardner
‘There is no loving without losing.
You lose yourself to become part of somebody else,
That’s just how it is.
I didn’t expect to remain the same, but,
Oh I guess I didn’t know what to expect.
It’s different every time though.
A new language invented,
A new system stumbled on,
Different from the old one.
A new way of engaging,
And disengaging ourselves from each other.
God knows how often I’ve looked into your eyes,
But, do you know, when I’m gone from you,
No matter how I try to remember,
Sometimes I forget the colour.
Yes, I’ve lost some things:
Ties and shirts you didn’t like,
Friends you didn’t approve of.
I get clobbered in the game of touch now,
Even with someone my own age.
Sometimes I feel I’m out of practice with people too;
Well, what would I do,
If you went off,
Or something happened?
I’m not equipped any more for relating to someone else;
I’ve lost,
Oh, only Jesus knows what I’ve lost,
As there is no loving without losing something.
What I have gained from being with you,
Besides a belly and a deeper beard,
I guess I couldn’t get anywhere else,
And I’ll be damned if I’ll ever try.’
‘I didn’t know you went for McKuen.’
‘Neither did I.’
‘You learned that with her, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, but that’s all over now.’
‘I’m glad.’
‘Hey Emilio, you’re putting on weight.’
‘I could do with a few pounds.’
‘It’s all that food you steal when Dominic’s not looking.’
‘Nah, it’s the spaghetti I teach you to cook, Doris. A wild English rose like you, yet you cook spaghetti like you came from Milan.’
‘The new job’s good, Emilio, you’re really happy again. For the first time for...Oh I don’t know, for years, I see you happy.’
‘I told you, it’s your spaghetti.’
‘No dear, I go down to Shireston on the second. It means almost a whole year out of London, simply nobody will remember me, but I believe I’m doing the right thing. I mean the chance to work with Douglas Silver and all those people. You did know that Conrad’s going to be there? What do you mean, Conrad who? You camp old bitch, you know as well as I do, that’s why I’m going down a day before I have to, I don’t want to get trampled under foot trying to get at him. I’ll be there already...
Douglas Dear,
Thank you for your Christmas gift. I did not dare to telephone you, but I’ve marked this Private For Mr. Silver Only. I hope that is all right. About your present: are you trying to tell me something about the future or the lack of something in the past?
I am longing just to see you again, though dying with fear…because of the circumstances.
Sorry. I can’t help loving you,
C
‘Jen, your hair?’ Shouted, face in shock, from the doorway.
‘What have you done to your hair?’
‘I’ve cut it off, darling.’
‘I can see that. But why? Your lovely hair.’
‘It’s better this way. It’ll be better for Desdemona.’
‘What do you mean it’ll be better for Desdemona? You should have consulted me on that. For Christ’s sake I am your director.’
‘You’re also my husband. First you’re my husband.’
‘Sure, first I’m your husband. So?’
‘What do you think about it as my husband?’
A long, long pause during which Douglas cocked his head on one side and allowed a smile to touch the corners of his mouth.
‘As your husband I love you any way. I’d love you without any hair at all. You know that. It’s great.’
‘And as my director, for Desdemona?’
‘You look like a butch St. Joan.’
‘It is rather drastic isn’t it?’ She peered into the mirror, face close, turning her head.
‘It’s bloody drastic and...’
‘And?’
‘I was going to say that Desdemona was not the reason for cutting your hair.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
Joe Thomas was due to arrive on the afternoon of the second. He came into Heathrow, unannounced, late on the afternoon of the first.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen. I would be stupid — A nut — if I tried to hand you some line about being honoured and privileged to be here. Hell, those are the words you hear people use, but I want to find some other way to tell you. Like, man, I’m knocked out to be here: but unconscious. I can’t believe it’s me here, in England steppin’ out to act Shakespeare. On a personal note, my own thoughts at this time go straight back to my old father, who, in his long and hard life carried only two books with him: the Bible and the works of William Shakespeare...
Shit, thought Joe Thomas, he couldn’t do it that way, it was phoney as a seven dollar bill. Sitting there in the wide cabin of the 747 bound for London, a shiver of apprehension trickled from the base of his spine, rising to the back of his neck. You could get away with the flip talking, like this last imagined press conference speech, when you were dealing with the brittle world of show business and clubs: there you could use the tinsel town talk, but put it next to the enduring classic Theatre and you were dead.
Joe Thomas had spent a lot of time with the classic Theatre, Othello in particular, during the past few weeks. His contractual obligations at Vegas finished at the end of October and, with inherent professionalism moving his reflexes, Thomas cut loose from the shiny halters of his work and dropped out of sight. In fact he was holed up in a rented villa just north of Sacramento, his only companion being a thirty-year-old professional boxing trainer who had him out doing road work at five very morning and again after dark each evening, with a couple of indoor sessions during the day.
The rest of the time, Joe Thomas grew a beard and studied Othello, working on the text, consuming every book he could find about both the play and the Elizabethan Theatre: he had a fixed intention in his mind to go to Shireston with a full working knowledge, a fact which would have disturbed Douglas Silver had he known.
Early in December, Joe Thomas’s natural urges got the better of him to the extent that he sent the trainer off on a long week-end and called in two trusted girlfriends from Los Angeles, an excess for which he suffered when the trainer returned.
Over Christmas he became restless again, anxious to get started, a feeling which was mixed with the occasional twinge of uncertainty. In the end he returned to Los Angeles, spent a couple of days catching up with accumulated paper work: putting letters on tape, finalizing matters with the now blatantly sulky Tommy Carr whom he tried to appease with good spirits and half promises.
‘Come on Tommy. Christ man you’re getting paid while I’m away.’
‘It ain’t just that, Joe, it’s not simply the money. I think you’re mad; I think you’ve been conned, baby. You’re going to spend a whole year in some English hick town with people you don’t know: they’re not like us you know, Joe.’
‘I’m going to get me a year’s culture and training, Tommy. Hell, Smiley’ll be comin’ over later, then, once the play’s on maybe you can come as well; perhaps fix up a couple of recording sessions, you know the clause in that K.D.M. contract gives the okay to do two a year for another label.’
‘Maybe. Maybe we can do something like that, but, man, I still think you’re crazy.’
Smiley packed for him and, without thought of any prearranged plan, Joe boarded the first jet he could get — eight suitcases, heavily overweight, but, he thought to himself, there
would be no big journalist problem at Heathrow if he arrived unexpected, unheralded.
Now, high above the Atlantic, with the anxious flicker of uncertainty superimposed against pictorial images of Shireston (which he had never seen), the festival, himself as the Moor, Joe Thomas leaned back and tried to ease his mind. He put on the headset and switched it through to Popular Music. Frank was ripping up the seats with You Make Me Feel So Young. Thomas had the immediate and immature reaction of why the hell isn’t that me? I did a deal with this airline only three months ago. They’ve got three tapes of mine, so why ain’t I on now? But that was always his way — the ego, the talent, the necessity for constant and instant admiration, success, adulation. The chill feeling within him increased.
Back on the ground again he was even colder: inside the terminal building at Heathrow he could feel the drop in temperature, making him shiver through his topcoat and suit. He collected his pile of luggage and found a porter who gave him a surly, ‘All this?’ pointing at the bags.
‘Sure.’
‘I’d better get someone to help.’ The man walked away with a slow lope, disappearing for ten minutes before returning with an equally weary colleague, the pair making a great deal of display about the number and weight of the cases.
At customs he did not fare any better. It became increasingly obvious to Joe that he was either going unrecognized or had happened on some very race conscious Englishman. The customs’ officer was abrupt, almost rude.
‘All these yours?’ he asked in a manner suggesting that there was something very wrong for a black man to be travelling with so much luggage.
It was with the customs’ officer’s first query that Joe Thomas realized how far he had been shielded, privileged even, within the racial tensions of his own country. It had been wrong and foolish of him to come over alone and unheralded. When Joe Thomas said jump they jumped: Joe Thomas was proof that black was beautiful and successful, but only when he had the symbols with him. Now he was very much alone and among people who had mixed ideals; people who said they deplored racism yet had hard fixed thoughts and beliefs in their hearts; frightened people and lethargic people.
Joe did not fully comprehend the rise of turmoil in his body, but one decision was certain, if difficult. He simply nodded slowly at the customs’ officer signifying that it was all his bag. gage: cooling his arrogance was the better way. It would be easy to blow and make a big noise, but, whatever his personal problems, Joe Thomas still clung on to his firm base of professional discipline.
The customs’ officer had a blotchy complexion and moist eyes which spoke of fatigue. ‘Have you read this before?’ he asked pointing to the familiar card that proclaimed what was needed by way of a customs’ declaration.
‘Many times.’ Joe could hear the dullness in his voice. Many times and in so many different circumstances, different countries and different states.
Can you read boy?
I’m going to read this for you and you’d better listen.
Open that case boy, then put your hands against the wall.
It had been a long time since anything like that had happened, but, when they wanted to, they really had the edge on you when it came to insults; all of them; the uniforms might be different but the looks and words always seemed to add up to the same thing. You did not expect it in liberal Britain, yet there it was deep behind those watery eyes, the prejudice and look which said black was not beautiful, black was dangerous, black was inferior.
‘Where have you come from?’
‘Los Angeles through New York City.’ Surprised baby? You think I came from Pakistan? Or the jungle? I ain’t wearing my loincloth. Or maybe you think I just made it in from South Africa? No sir you don’t catch me in that neck of the woods. That would be great: Joe Thomas starring at the Starlight Room of the Johannesburg Hilton.
‘Are you here for pleasure?’
‘I figure living is pleasure, but if you want to be accurate, I’m here on business.’
‘You plan to work here?’
‘I do.’ And I know you’ve got plenty of vacancies on the London subways, and the buses and there’s always street cleaning.
‘You have a work permit?’
That was enough. Joe Thomas leaned against the counter, making the movement an overtly exaggerated gesture. ‘Is this some kind of a put on or do you really not know who I am?’ He looked straight into the man’s filmy eyes.
‘Are you travelling on a United States passport?’
‘That’s already been checked out, by the gentleman back there who deals with passports. Now, take a good look, do you still not know who I am?’
‘No sir,’ the sir was drawn out, ‘I do not know who you are. I simply asked if you were travelling on a United States passport. I also asked if you had a work permit.’
Thomas felt the blood rise, but he still held himself in check: there were vague, half-known facts about the English Race Relations Act fanning around his mind. The controlled and un-roused part of him tried to be subjective: the officer could claim that he was perfectly within his rights; on paper the questions would look nothing, the insults being in the nuance, the tone, the attitude.
Slowly he reached inside his breast pocket and removed his passport, tossing it on to the counter, another flamboyant gesture as the flat little book spun against the wood, stopping the right way up and pointing towards the customs’ officer who reached lazily to lift it from the counter. He slowly leafed through the pages, flicking his eyes up to Thomas’s face and then down again at the document.
‘You look different with a beard, Mr...er...Mr. Thomas. That’s a Welsh name, Thomas.’
‘So is Davis, as in Sammy Davis. I am an American citizen.’ He was too big to get uptight about it. Who was he talking at anyway? Some little official with a spit of power who probably really did have no idea who Thomas was: the man might even be an opera buff.
The customs’ man nodded at the passport. ‘Entertainer, hu? We usually have to ask you gentlemen to open one or two pieces of baggage.’
In spite of the internal rage, Thomas smiled. ‘Rogues and vagabonds, yet?’
‘Something like that, sir.’
Maybe he had been wrong about the man: there was no way of telling. Pictures filled his mind, flashing out against the mental retina: the sea of faces and crash of applause, the band backing him, blaring, his hands outstretched as though taking the audience to him; his ability to captivate, to lift, to create a small happening of mass hypnotism; the pleasure which he obviously gave to them and the stimulation he felt when he was giving; and the contempt he so often felt for large numbers of his fans. It was just possible that there was one lone cat in British Customs at Heathrow Airport who had never seen or heard of him, who had never been exposed to him. Yet, in the next second he knew it was not quite as straightforward as that.
‘Have you anything to declare?’ The officer’s face insolently blank, as if he knew something of which Joe Thomas was unaware.
‘I’m only carrying my personal effects.’ As he said it, Joe realized why he had been disturbed. It had nothing to do with colour, simply the unconscious worry that customs’ men detect like radar scanners. Personal effects. His dressing case and what Smiley had said at the airport before he left.
‘I put a little in the soap container, boss, just in case you need relaxing a shade when you get over there.’
He was thinking of something else when Smiley had said it and the whole thing only registered vaguely, but it must have been heavy in his subconscious and now he knew why the customs’ officer seemed to be hammering him. It did not feel good.
‘Only your personal effects?’
The pause was too long. ‘Yes.’
‘And you have nothing to declare?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then you’ve no objection to our looking through your luggage?’
Joe Thomas shrugged. ‘Do I have a choice?’
The man tipped his cap on to the back of
his head which he shook, slowly. Another, younger, officer had joined him. ‘Okay, we’ll start with the small stuff.’ Unerringly he indicated the briefcase and dressing case.
Joe Thomas pulled out his slim gold key chain and began to unlock the larger cases.
‘No sir,’ the officer’s hand on the dressing case: it had been a Christmas gift, a couple of years ago, from a grateful executive for whom he had done a couple of contractual favours: a handsome oblong black leather box which opened out flat, displaying brushes, bottles and containers: ivory, glass and silver.
The second man busied himself with the briefcase while the first began unstoppering bottles sniffing at their contents. Fascinated, Joe watched him move from the bottles to the cordless electric shaver and on to the electric toothbrush and then the soap container. He did not speak until the man lifted it from its leather holding strap.
‘Okay,’ Joe’s voice low, almost a whisper. ‘Okay I’m busted. It’s in there.’
The customs’ officer gave him a quick sidelong glance and then returned to opening the soap container. Once more Joe felt the rise of anger. Why was this happening to him, Joe Thomas? The anger was mixed with a terrible feeling of isolation, loneliness, hatred for this white bastard. As if down some long cavern of memory that was not his own he could hear the baying of dogs. That was his grandfather’s memory passed on at childhood, but it was real enough.
The customs’ man had unwrapped the small packet, a cube less than half an inch all round. ‘This all you’ve got?’ he asked. They both spoke quietly.
‘Every little bit. I don’t use it that often. My man put it in at the last moment in case I needed relaxing after the trip. Where do we go from here?’
‘I’m afraid we’ll have to check the rest of the baggage. I’ll personally take your word that there’s no more, but they’ll still order a search. If you unlock everything, then we’ll go to some less conspicuous place. Okay?’
Joe nodded, moving automatically, unlocking the cases against his instincts which were telling him to raise all hell. As he opened the last case the customs’ officer quietly motioned him to follow and together they crossed the wide hail.