by Anna Tambour
"Yes," I said.
She took my key. "Follow me, then. Mind the first step."
~
I live downstairs. Mrs. Percival has been very kind to let me stay. My room is pleasant, and the duties aren't too arduous. Sometimes when I'm scrubbing, she'll come down, stand next to me, and give me a pat on the head. I was startled at first, but her touch is soft and motherly. She never says much, mostly "dear boy," and some small command.
I've never seen Her in the halls again. But for a year now, I wake with her back to me. One night I'll stay awake long enough to feel what it's like.
In the meantime, I feel that I am wearing down her reserve. I've found curled blonde hairs on my pillow for the past few months. I've saved them all, in the box.
~
It happened. She came to me last night. I was awake through it all, and I cannot describe it adequately at the moment, except to say that when she reached to unlace her stays, I said, "No," and she didn't. And afterwards, when I said, "Was it good for you?" she threw her legs behind her head so that her knees were by her ears. And after that, when I said, "Was it good for you?" she shoved her ass so that her cunt was, ah, god ...
When we were done, she left.
We didn't talk, but who needs to?
I had just finished my morning pots when Mrs. Percival came to the kitchen. I was alone. "You may leave now," she said.
"Thank you, Mrs. Percival." Today I could hardly wait to spend the off hours in my room, as every day—dreaming of Her.
She held a little paper bag, and pushed it at me. It smelt good.
Such a motherly touch. I focussed on her face. "The rest of the day off?"
"Your services are no longer required," she said, and turned to leave.
"Mrs. Percival!" I screamed.
She turned swiftly, "Please, nothing disturbs one like—"
"Sorry," I whispered. "But you can't be—"
She turned to the stairs, saying as she mounted, "Your suitcase is by the front door."
I ran after her, cried and begged, but she was a very hard woman.
~
I am in the street now, the street I haven't seen for two years. My pay was to stay.
In the paper bag, there's a pork pie.
And a note.
"Sigh no more ladies, sigh no more,
Men were deceivers ever;
One foot in sea, and one on shore,
To one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Hey nonny, nonny."
PS. I thought you'd know.
And then, in Adrian's handwriting:
PPS I bet them you wouldn't know.
~
I know? Know what? Suddenly it washes over me. Nonny, nonny. I stamp the pork pie's pink insides into the concrete. Take hold of my suitcase and smash it to the pavement so it pops open in startled compliance. That toy! All my clothes are flying into the traffic, against windscreens, into people—I know because I can hear them. But then I remember. I threw the damned thing out, as it was nonsense.
Adrian! The author is one of Adrian's wench period guys. Probably Adrian's hero, mister fucking bard himself. Adrian's played a dirty trick on me. Adrian and his ugly sister. The sound of the golf ball rolling off the clump of hair makes me grab for it.
Through my tears, I look for the bow window at the front of Mrs. Percival's. There are three people almost glued to the paned glass, looking out. Mrs. Percival. The slut herself, dressed in a pink shirtwaist dress—and now that I look at her face, there is a family resemblance in the nose! and Adrian! They have their arms around each other, and they are smiling at me.
My golfball isn't as big as a baseball, but I'm ready to pitch as hard as—
Two strong arms take hold of my two and hold them firmly behind me, bent over as I am, bottom up. "Sir," a deep voice says. "We don't want any disturbance now, do we?"
"And who the fuck—"
"Sir," the voice cuts in. "Please conduct yourself in a dignified manner, or we'll have to take you to the station."
"Are you a pig?"
"PC Entwhistle, sir. So now, we don't want any disturbance, do we?"
"Do we!" I spit.
I look at the window, at the three people who look so calm and composed, smiling like they've just finished reading some fairy tale with a happy ending.
"We do, sir!" My right foot makes contact with the suitcase, but in my position, it is an impotent kick. "We want very much to make a didurbands!" I gargle, because now I am crying.
But this policeman must be at heart, like me—a reasonable man—so I pull in a deep breath and swallow.
"I was set up," I explain. "How was I supposed to know what was coming?" I lick the snot running into my mouth. "How could I have known their dirty game?" I crane my neck so I can look into that window, and they are laughing now. I feel something go pop inside my chest, but I have to scream. "Cheats!" I yell, "Romance perverts!"
The pain in my neck is excruciating. My chest is feeling tight. "Are we finished, sir?" the policeman asks in a soothing voice.
I'm tired now, but I can feel he is a reasonable man. "I'm a specialist," I say.
The grip on my neck is solid but not pinching. I hear a cough behind me. He wants me to explain.
"My dissertation," I tell him, though I am not sure he would know what a dissertation is. "My specialty, you see, is London faux-American detective nineteen seventy to seventy-five. It was bibiliographed at least a dozen times."
The policeman was very nice. "I'm sure it was, sir," he agreed.
The Magic Lino
I picked up the piece of linoleum, and phew! The underside stunk. By the way it curled, I'd use it underside up, ugly side to the world, and the smooth pretty side against me—scuffed cabbage roses.
There's a tap in the park for dogs, so I thought to wash it there, but first brushed a few snails from the scored brown underside.
"Hey! Mind your own business! Leave my friends alone!"
I looked around to run. This early in the morning it's usually alright. A good time for scrounging, in fact. My trolley's packed with finds just like this nice piece of lino. But I can't take chances or all my things would get pinched, so I had a mind to scurry away, but couldn't figure where the danger was. I'd have to go at crippled trolley pace even if I could run, which I can't.
No further yells. No one around. Just traffic. Must have been some tiff, already blown out.
I uncurled the lino again and spread it underside up on the pavement, kicking a clod free of the mid—
"Kick yourself, you bastard!"
Whoa! That fight had started up again, and sounded awful close.
I jumped off the lino, picked up the edges and rolled it fast.
"You deaf?"
That did it. My feet were moving, anywhere but away from that voice. My elbows sort of steered the trolley while my hands hovered over my possessions, looking for a place to fit the unwieldy, stinking roll.
"Oh no you don't. Not with them," the voice menaced, now inches from my ears. "Stop where you are!"
And there I was, stuck, holding that stiff roll, now filthy on both sides, with me unable to move.
"That's better. Now let's take it real slow. Nice and gentle, put me down."
I put the lino down.
"Unfold me nice and slow, roses up."
I unfolded.
"Hang onto my edge. Don't grab! Delicate ... That's the ticket. Nothing wrong with you a bit of earwash won't cure."
I didn't need an ear wash, I don't think. Maybe I don't smell the freshest, but considering who was talking ...
"Speak for yourself." I answered. "I can hear every word!" I could feel them too, rumbling through my fingertips.
"Sit."
That sounded good. My haunches were getting sore in this crouch holding onto the edge.
"Not
on me!"
The seat of my pants caught, I shoved myself off so fast. "Now look what you've done!" I only had one spare pair, and it was in worse condition.
The lino was unrepentant. "A bit of respect please. And now what are you?"
"What? Now?"
"Whenever," said the lino with surprising gentleness.
"I was a prospector."
"Huh. Ever find anything?"
"Once in seventy-two."
"Keep you long?"
"Ten weeks."
"Drink it off?"
"No! Not all of us drink!"
"Girls?"
"No."
"What? They came free?" The scepticism stung enough to make me check the safety pin in my fly. Cleaned up, I wasn't bad in my time.
"Not much of a strike if it only kept you for ten weeks."
"I spent it on history books, and took a trip to Chichén Itzá in Mexico."
"You don't have to state the obvious."
"Oh." I wasn't sure about this conversation. But I hadn't spoken to anyone for a long time. "Sorry. Maybe everyone knows that Chichén Itzá's in Mexico."
"You keen on only that stuff?"
"What? Mayan?"
"Yeah."
"No. World history. Mythology, too." I thought maybe the lino would be interested, but it just grunted cryptically.
"Why'd you hang up your pick?" it asked, then answered before I had to. "No choice, more like it."
This was no brilliant deduction. It was pretty obvious. My spine is a question mark.
I nodded.
"Brilliant conversationalist," the lino commented, then twitched and straightened. "Lookin for some fun?"
Nobody had said that to me for a long time, and never a piece of lino.
"Depends." My hair itched. "You making fun of me?"
"Wouldn't think to!" the lino vibrated. "You look sad, is all. Thought I'd do you a good turn, since you picked me up. You scratch my back sorta thing."
A bus passed, spurting a diesel funk while I thought.
"Hey you! I haven't got all day. You not interested, put me back where you found me."
"No!" I yelled, shocked. "Please. What do I do?"
"For me? That's nice. Well, first, brush my roses with your hands, and then turn me over and observe the society there without touching. They'll get over the shock, but need your apology to heal. After a proper length of respect time, we can resume."
"How long is enough?"
"You'll know."
And I'll be damned. I did.
~
"Now sit beside me, and we'll get this relationship straight. You maintain me in the state of health I desire, and keep my friends where you call 'the underneath' there damp and fed. And I'll give you the time of your life."
"You tell me how?"
"No worries."
"Can I do it?"
"Does a tree bark? That's a joke, the lino laughed. "Lighten up."
"Let's shake on it," I laughed, a sound I hadn't heard in years. "Just kidding! It's a deal."
"Don't you wanna hear what I'll do for you?"
"No." I always did hate to know for sure what was just around the corner.
"That's the stuff!" the lino chuckled. "Now, see that bench over there?" which could only have been a bench in a square of park across the street. "Now you go over there, stretch out and lay me over you."
It was coming on eight o'clock, and the first of the early office workers trickled past. I felt silly.
"What's wrong?"
"I never lay down during the day."
"Ah," it breathed. "But what do you care?"
"I've got self-respect, too!" The gurk on my jacket seemed to glow extra yellowly.
"Aren't we touchy!" the lino answered, but sounded quite contrite. It spoke softly now. "You just do what I say. Trust me."
I still wasn't sure if it was taking the piss out of me, but I had no one else. "You pitying me?" I asked.
"What you think I am? A doily?" the lino shot back. "Can't you smell I'm honest?"
That did it That stink was one hundred percent plus genuine.
Respectfully, I rolled the lino up and tucked it under my arm. Then I decamped pushing the trolley with one awkward hand, over to the empty bench in the park.
"My trolley?"
"Don't fret. It's not going anywhere. Now lay me down and pull me over you."
"Roses up?"
"Roses down."
That was a relief. "Thank you for being so considerate."
"Otherwise, you might hurt my friends."
"Oh." That hurt. "Aren't I a friend, too?"
"What a china doll! Only my friends get this chance."
I know it was only my imagination, but suddenly my back felt straight, my face shaven, and my armpits smelt of eau de cologne.
"Mollified?" the lino smiled.
"Mollified!" I grinned.
"So what you waiting for? No time to waste!"
So I stretched out on the bench and carefully pulled the lino over me.
"Hold my sides," the lino commanded. "Ouch, don't pinch! Relax ... oooh, that's the ticket."
I closed my eyes and heard a giggle.
And then nothing.
"What you expect?" the lino asked, exasperated. "I can't do anything with you worried about what people think."
"Can they see me?"
"Course they can. You think I'm Houdini?"
"No."
"You care?"
And all of a sudden, I didn't.
"That's the stuff!" the lino shouted. "Hang on!"
I gripped. And nothing happened.
"I forgot," the lino asked. "What kinda food you like?"
My stomach growled the answer, "Any kind that's soon!"
But I answered, "Italian."
"Hm."
"What's wrong?"
"I'm thinking."
"Any kind's fine with me," I said. I thought maybe I'd answered wrong.
"You like fruit?"
I prefer spaghetti, but didn't want to be rude. "Sure. I like everything."
"That's the stuff! Hang on!"
We took off.
On that day, I was just in time for lunch with Zeus.
We ate ambrosia. 'Taint spag, but I've since learned: with travel, you've got to take the swings with the roundabouts.
Call me Omniscient
I am what technical people call 'omniscient.' But before you get any ideas about me knowing everything, let me dissuade you. I only know about the stories I tell. About Moby Dick, for instance, I know nothing. As to the work I am involved with, I do my best to tell what everyone is thinking and doing, but don't blame me if I don't tell you everything. A little mystery is an essential part of every tale, as well as every life.
And let me tell you! Those first-person fellows ("Call me Ishmael" etcetera) hold back a lot more than I would, and dress up the truth of what they tell about themselves, queasy at the thought of just anyone turning the pages of their lives.
So yes, I've seen a lot in my day, been behind a lot of stories. Every author uses me if he doesn't choose to tell the tale himself. Many abuse me horridly, but as I am only a 'tool,' a device for telling, never an acknowledged partner in an author's life, I must look on and sigh. I tell the author what happens. But don't blame me for the way he tells you, what obscurity he chooses. Or she, if you insist on getting sidetracked. The point is, I never interfere.
Except once.
~
We were working on a novel about death, murder, sex, and intrigue—KayDeeOh and I. That's his initials, by the way, but it will suffice. We'd been working for four months and he was getting slower and slower, and fatter as he slowed. I'd tell him what he wanted to know that day, but he kept getting wound up in the telling. He was one of these 'I don't want to know the whole story' types, the most frustrating kind. He started out every morning with a blank page and poised fingers, which hung over the keys in a most annoying manner. He expected, but wanted to know only in t
he smallest of instalments. He irked me. But after the first chapter, I seemed to irk him, too, as his telling got more and more convoluted.
Chapter one went alright. Chapter two, slower. We'd gotten through the first death, then an out-and-out murder, and he was intrigued as to the first death, because he didn't know—accident or murder.
Then it was time for the sex and intrigue. When at day 15 nine am, top of page 167, he stopped. "I've got writer's block," he wrote in an email, to his mother, of all people.
Then he sat. Just sat. No. He opened up his button-down shirt, and, swivelling his chair away from his computer screen, picked his bellybutton for about ten minutes. A big sigh escaped when he plucked an ingrown hair from his paunch. And then there was a bang bang bang and a Kornell dear at the apartment door. He buttoned up his shirt and slouched toward Mom, who had already opened the door, balancing a tray of homemade lasagne and two mystery presents wrapped in foil and ribbon.
KayDeeOh buffed her cheek with his, and opened the first present, which turned out to be a pair of long underwear. "You don't heat this place enough," she smiled. "Wait," she said, as he began to untie the bow of the second. She bustled into his bedroom and tutted as she made his bed and straightened up his night table. "Now," she announced toward him in the doorway. The wrapping came off to reveal a framed photo of herself.
"It's beautiful, Mom," he said as he walked out of the room and put it in his office, on top of the file cabinet. "I spend more time here ... thinking, you know," he yelled as she made little noises in the kitchen. He fiddled with his email until there was a smell. Coffee. But when he entered the kitchen, her backside was facing him as she hunted in the almost empty fridge. "Let's go to Schrafts," she said,
"I only have time," he said to her back, which tensed as he watched, "for the best Mommy Princess in the world."
"Oh, Kornell," she sniffed, as she turned around, all five feet of her, into his arms. He kissed the top of her hennaed head. They left. To my fury.
The next day was worse. The bellybutton exploration began in bed. Then there was a hair exploration, from the back of his skull to the furze at his forehead. I waited but he didn't enter our room. The phone rang, and it was Mom. Another day shot.
She was a nice Mom. I've got nothing against her. His apartment was cold. But if he got me to tell him the whole story, then I could have been shot of him. One story done, which meant that my growing load of stories could be dealt with more efficiently. These days there are so many people I have to work with, though the stories ... I prefer those of five hundred years ago. At least amongst your stories. Five hundred million years ago. Now that was the golden age. But where was I?