by John Elliott
When he returned to the kitchen, the tea had kept its flavour, smoky and herbaceous, ghost leaves brewed and consumed by a living ghost who, for the moment, was free to go where he wanted to go, do what he wanted to do. Follow what is at hand, he told himself. Go where they lead. Elizabeth Kerry and Forest Mushroom can be my guides. They both arrived by chance. Their interpretation is down to me. He slurped another sip of tea and resumed reading ‘Man About Town’ from the top of the uppermost page.
I need to say something I have avoided so far: namely the critical evaluation of Forest Mushroom’s career, especially the years ’59 to ’62. I bow to no one in avowing that, at the height of his powers, he was capable of transforming the art of the golden era into a heart-stopping directness allied to a beguiling sense of rhythm. He could rekindle the most primitive songs into spluttering fire. Prisoners lamenting their fate were stones of rage and grief he unleashed into his audience’s midst, yet he also could convey the grace of a girl’s seductive hips, swaying down the street or parading by the river bank, with the teasing out of his ever more fragile vocal line, culminating in attenuated sobs. The variations of ‘Curro Loran’ and ‘The Kid from Cenaul’ are only remembered today because he is their living exemplar. No palms, laurels or encomiums were denied him whenever initiates met, but the perplexing truth, which must be faced, is he has progressively squandered his talent on banal pastiches, pseudo-Latin imports and disastrous forays into light operettas. In consequence, his once-loyal supporters became dismayed, disorientated and, alas, ultimately disinterested. His name on a billboard nowadays no longer affords a guarantee as to the nature of his offering.
This was not what Forest Mushroom had said. Somehow he had missed out the relevant pages. He leafed backwards until he found what he was looking for.
. . . looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘Uncle Antonio and I shared the first prize at the Pomegranate Festival. At that time, he was an elder of seventy-one, and I was only a lad of twelve. On the night before our turns came round, he sat me down at the back of the stage they had set up in Caidero Square and told me how he had walked there all the way from the mountains of his home village of Lazorca, a distance of some hundred and thirty kilometres. He had left a good three weeks beforehand, journeying only in the hours immediately after dawn.
‘Antonio was truly a country person. He had worked as a goatherd, a tanner, a farrier of mules, a singer for a few coppers and a turned away day labourer. Like ourselves, he was used to picking up what he could, sleeping in the open if he had to, watching his balls freeze and his cock shrivel in the moonlight frost. He knew well the trails through the high mountain defiles, the rocky paths to shepherds’ refuges, the way across the boulder-strewn, dried-up river beds, the lonely lookout of the hermit’s cell. All our caves and resting places, the springs of each valley were known to him, and he ate and drank with whosoever he met, gypsies and muleteers, wood gatherers and policemen, singing for himself and others when the great Debla moved him. At the Cajal forge, he tarried blotto for two nights and two days during the celebrated piss-up you may have heard about, though it was years ago.
‘Needless to say, news of his travelling and where he was going soon spread. Wherever he went, locals turned out to warn him of strangers, the perils in the road ahead, the persistence of witches at unmarked boundaries. In Eloyga, a talking cockerel flapped its wings on a midden heap and gave him sound advice. That very night, a red-scaled fish, which he caught and gutted by the bank of a ditch, bore him a trove of coins mixed up in its roe. A hare next morning, nestling in the grass, shrieked his name as, ears trembling, nose quivering, it sprang away from his approaching tread. These portents foretold success.
‘So it was with an easy heart, having gained more fertile lands, he set his snares at dusk for partridges and quails, bedding down on straw for the night in high-roofed barns, where the hoot of the hunting owl brought him wisdom and the scurry of the fleeing rat tenacity. Later, when he passed the walls of Count Muñoz y Sintero’s estate, the gardeners and servants all came out to greet him at the eastern gate. They filled his canteen with wine and gave him pasties and sweetmeats of honey and almonds to eat.
‘On his seventeenth day of travel, members of my clan encamped by his bivouac on the outskirts of Rasinel. They knew the city where he was heading, so were able to tell him where he would find good lodgings. This was the first time he heard speak of my name and that he realised our fates were linked.
‘On the following morning, he dallied with some washerwomen farther down the reaches of the river, and to this day they still swear that he brought one of them with child in spite of his venerable age. A sickly child, by all accounts, which died before it had the chance to count three Verbenas of Saint John.’
Here the singer paused and, raising his tumbler in a toast, declared, ‘Strength to our pricks, those of us that have them! Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Uncle Antonio finally reached the tramlines to the north of the city on the morning of the twelfth. There he shared a handful of onions with men from the nearby brickworks. As he was still nervous of entering such a bustling and unknown place, he asked them what he should do. They advised him to stop where he was while they sent a message to the president of the jury, who, in turn, sent Vincent Uriguer’s son to collect the wayfarer and bring him to the inn by the church of Saint Nicholas. The young man guided him through the streets as though he was leading a blind man, for Antonio was loath to look any inhabitant in the eye and kept his eyes tightly shut out of caution. In the same manner, he was delivered to the stage of the competition on the appointed hour of the designated night.
‘In the event, he proved to be an untutored singer. After all, there was no one in his family to help him. He, therefore, relied on hawker’s cries, threshing songs and personal variations on miners’ laments he had picked up in his youth.
‘When the prize-giving was over, he rested one more day, playing cards with the occupants of the inn and losing money, before setting off, this time in the company of Luis Canaver. They said their farewells on the far side of Saint Jerome Bridge. Antonio was happy to go. He never looked back. Soon his road became a country road, and from it he retraced his steps until he gained his home in Lazorca, a home that he never left again in his remaining lifetime.
‘Years later, after his death, I met one of his great-nieces. She was amazed when I told her all of this.’
With these words and a brusque flip of his right wrist, Forest Mushroom indicated that my interview was at an end. All I could do was to give my bemused thanks, with as much civility as I could muster, and take my leave.
At the bottom of the page, Monse had interjected another flurry of footnotes. ‘I am writing to you because.’ The persistent memory of his own words to Veri would not easily go away. They repeated themselves shamefully as he resolutely tried to bury himself in the significance of the Museum Café, the historical importance of the Colonial and the spider’s web genealogy of Forest Mushroom’s talented forebears and descendants.
Uncle Antonio, he learned, was one Antonio Escobar, long considered an unsophisticated representative of country singing, but now, thanks to modern scholarship and Professor Paul Fexon’s seminal work, Myths of the Golden Age, identified as a forgotten semi-professional who, at the height of his career, had appeared with such notables as Toni Fortune and Isabella of the Geraniums. Following a prison term for vagrancy, he had returned to his native village where he continued to sing at local festivities and annual pilgrimages.
As to the young person coyly referred to by ‘Man About Town’, she was, in all probability, either Marie Semenova, who was often at Forest Mushroom’s side after his second Paris triumph, or Lola Martin, who subsequently scandalised ‘tout le monde’ by threatening to urinate on his open grave, a deep affront to gypsy custom and manners.
Monse’s final gloss overleaf confirmed what Sonny had been thinking for some time. ‘What you are reading is the full text of Guiterez’s submission. The paper merely
printed a note confirming the singer’s temporary presence in Orias and reminded readers of a once-celebrated career. Other articles signed by him, however, continued to appear at regular monthly intervals.’
He cleared away the teapot and bowl. Feeling hungry, he heated a pan, wiped it with oil, broke three eggs, beat them a little and then, off the heat, cooked an omelette. If I can never leave Miranda, he thought, I might as well summon the grace to bear it lightly. He finished eating and slid the empty plate under the running tap. There was no way his memories would wash away so easily. His mind was already made up what to do next. He would start at Gallo Mart, Old Station Yard, and look for Antonio Escobar’s talking cockerel.
He picked up the Elizabeth Kerry jottings and put them in his pocket. ‘Dearest darling ones, I am writing to you, as you have written to me, to ask how our cause is going at home.’ No, that was another letter which had best been left unread. Let its memory rest on top of his torn-up letter to Veri, like the finally discarded piece of chewing gum. Greenlea was where he was and where he was about to go into. Now he was ready to journey through it and take the ferry to Panalquin.
*
Immediately greeted as an old friend, recognised amongst the crowd as a former work colleague, introduced in sequence by different people as a one-time student at Thomas Malone, a graduate of Walker University, a recent participant in the Brightholme Seminar, kissed and hugged by strangers, her arm lightly touched by passing couples, her hand held a moment too long by an obsequious man dressed in a mulberry jerkin and dilapidated green corduroys and brown scuffed shoes, Agnes floated completely adrift in the uncertainty of being Emily Brown.
Emily certainly seemed popular. She appeared to be known by most people at the gallery opening. Their initial greetings quickly rippled out into invitations to meet after work, to do lunch next Tuesday, to join an outing to a concert on Friday, to attend Fred Jameson’s new show at the Pelican, to roller-blade in the park sometime or to enjoy a dinner party, with a few special friends, this coming Saturday. Ever since she had given her name to the elaborately coiffured woman inside the entrance, she had been swept along by their chit-chat, a wary recipient of their ingratiating smiles.
‘I don’t mind admitting I had a thing about you in those days,’ a young man said, looking mockingly into her eyes, ‘but I was too gauche to ever think I stood a chance. You were so self-assured, so more worldly wise and sophisticated than anyone I had come across. Believe me, I hung on your every word and gesture. I don’t suppose you even noticed I was there.’
‘My dear,’ a sylph-like blonde cut in, ‘at first I wasn’t sure it was you. Then I just had to come over. I was only saying to Bryony the other day, we never see any of the old gang and now here you are in the flesh and looking wonderful. Tell me,’ she drew Agnes aside conspiratorially, leaving the young man to switch his attention to a maquette of a pubescent girl holding a pineapple to her bosom, ‘have you managed to get over Martin yet? I heard he behaved like the real swine he always threatened to be. I could have warned you, it’s true, but in affairs of the heart or downright lust, for that matter, it’s best to stay,’ she raised an elegant finger to her coral lips, ‘don’t you think?’
Agnes forced a smile and said, ‘I’m terribly sorry. You’ll think this is awful, but for the life of me I don’t know who you are.’
‘Julia. Julia Cyrone. Why, Emily, are you sure you’re quite well? This is such an uncivilised hour, so early in the morning, for one of these launchings. PR, I expect, trying to give a new twist to an old refrain. But look, you must excuse me. I’ve just spotted Timothy Cozzens over there by the video installation. Frank and I are so keen on his recent work. Now are you sure you’re going to be alright? I must dash. Lovely to bump into you.’
Left temporarily on her own, Agnes toured the exhibits. Porous Leaf Gallery, Castle Street, Lagran, had been the sole entry for today in the Emily Brown diary she had found on the bedside table. She had eagerly skimmed through its previous pages, crammed with names and places, restaurants and meetings, without coming across the one name which interested her. All forward dates had been blank.
As she stood in front of a gouache of a boy holding the reins of a rearing palomino, she became aware of a bald-headed man to her right, who was studying her with more than casual interest. Seeing her catch his eye, he slipped what looked like a small photograph into the inside pocket of his black and white houndstooth jacket, smiled at her and enquired hesitantly, ‘Ms Brown?’
Agnes nodded, stifling the urge to delve in his pocket and retrieve what she suspected was a likeness of herself. ‘Mr . . . ?’
‘Leo Manners. You probably won’t remember me. I was with Hunt, Gransky and Liebfield at the time of your secondment.’
‘On the contrary, Leo,’ Agnes decided to play along, ‘I remember you perfectly well. You were working on the René Darshel account, weren’t you? Or was it the deal with Chance Company?’
‘I see you haven’t lost your sense of humour, Ms Brown. We all need a sideline to help us buy our artworks, don’t we, and Chance Company, though it pays a pittance, keeps us amused. Who was the French gentleman you mentioned? Perhaps you could give me a lead, and we can see where it takes us.’
‘Mid to late forties. US resident, urban nomad, valve-trombone player, serial disappearing act, now possibly living in Greenlea.’
Leo Manners shook his head. ‘No. He’s not fertile ground for me. I’m afraid financial services, the importation of exotic fish, autumns by Lake Ambret, the history of the Lombard family of Eltville, these are my rather threadbare specialities. At a push, I can trim through great cinematographers or the rudiments of beekeeping. Maybe there’s someone here,’ he paused and looked around at the thinning crowd, ‘but most seem to be moving off already. It’s piece work, you see.’
‘Well thanks for being straight with me, Leo.’
‘My pleasure.’ He bowed slightly.
‘Talking of Chance Company, have you come across one of their employees, Roberto Ayza?’
‘Sorry to disappoint you.’
Agnes smiled. ‘It doesn’t seem to be my morning. By the way, what do you think of this?’
Leo looked at the gouache. ‘Appealing subject matter to many, I’d think, but derivative, poorly executed and a tad over-priced. It was nice meeting you, Ms Brown. I’m afraid the office calls. Please have a pleasant stay in Greenlea.’
Agnes watched him leave then made her way back to the woman at the entrance. ‘Is there a phone I may use,’ she said, ‘and have you a local directory?’
‘You can use this one as long as it’s a Greenlea call,’ the woman said, indicating the telephone on her table and passing Agnes a phone book. ‘Did you see anything that interested you?’
Agnes found Chance Company’s number and dialled. ‘Nothing grabbed me, I’m afraid.’
The woman smiled. ‘Next time perhaps. You’ve got our card?’
‘I’d like to speak to Mr Ayza, please. Roberto Ayza.’
‘Putting you through. Please hold,’ a woman’s voice replied on the line.
‘Yes, I’ve got your card, thanks,’ Agnes said, waiting for the connection.
A tall, heavily built black man, clad in a russet overcoat belted at the waist with a matching pork-pie hat pushed through the outer door. Agnes turned her back to him as a new voice answered. ‘Mary Appleby. How may I help you?’
‘I need to speak to Mr Ayza. He’s,’ Agnes paused, searching for the correct job title, ‘my file manager.’
‘Mr Ayza is on leave for a week starting today. May I take your name? Is there a problem or an additional service you would like?’
‘Ms Brown,’ the woman at the table was speaking to her. ‘This gentleman has come to meet you.’
Agnes turned round to see the man who had just entered. She replaced the receiver. ‘Hi!’ he said. ‘I’m Emmet Briggs. I’ve been asked to bring you this from Chance Company.’ He handed her a sealed envelope.
‘L
et’s sit down. There are things I want to ask you. Over there’ll do.’ Agnes led the way to a bench in the middle of the gallery. She sat down, opened the envelope and took out its contents. It was a typed letter bearing Roberto Ayza’s name and signature. Emmet Briggs, who had remained standing, joined her on the bench.
‘Are you a friend, Emmet?’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Are you going to tell me about my history? How you previously met Emily Brown. How you don’t know René Darshel. How this is part of the service, part of the paid charade.’
‘Look, this is something I only started today. It’s a real departure for me. Friendship doesn’t come into it. It’s simple. I’ve been hired to take you to the Berengaria Hotel this evening and to drive you to see a Mr Alakhin tomorrow. You don’t want to go or you want to go by yourself, that’s your business. If there’s nothing else I’ll be on my way.’ He stood up.
‘You know Greenlea, Mr Briggs?’
‘I know it and, as it happens, I’ve also heard of Mr Alakhin when he was a policeman or so-called detective.’
Agnes took a decision. After all, she was the one paying the money. She might as well follow, for the time being, the route Chance Company was outlining, in spite of this morning’s disappointment. ‘Okay, we’ll go then,’ she said. ‘Have you got where I’m staying?’
Emmet nodded. ‘One thing I will tell you. When you’re with me you’ll be secure. It’s my guarantee.’
‘But what’ll we find when we get there, wherever it is?’
‘I don’t know. Same as always, I guess. Just be ready because the dice are always loaded and sure as shit someone’s lying, that’s my advice. I’ll be at your place at 8.30.’