At dinner Kathleen, activated by nervousness, talked non-stop until she left the room to make the coffee. Mr Maguire nodded his head as if it had become a reflex to the torrent of words and one that he could not stop even when she had left the room. He whispered to Mary, ‘Kathleen’s problem is that she hasn’t heard of the paragraph.’ He said that he would like to settle his bill as he would be leaving first thing after Mass in the morning when the roads would be relatively traffic free.
Mary said, ‘It might be nice if we walked up to the hotel later. I’d like to make my position clear.’
‘Yes, that would help.’
‘About eight?’
After Mr Maguire had excused himself Mary said to her sister, ‘I’m going for a walk with him later.’
‘It makes no difference to me. I have to go to the church to do the flowers.’
‘Oh that’s right. It’s Saturday . . .’ Kathleen began to stack the cups on to the tray with a snatching movement.
‘Have you made up your mind how you’re going to tell him?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Mary. ‘I’m not even sure what I’m going to tell him.’
‘Don’t allow me to influence you one way or the other. You can do whatever you like. All I hope is that you won’t do something you’ll regret for the rest of your life. And if you go traipsing off with him I’ll need some help with the mortgage.’
‘There’s no question of that.’ Mary was aware that her voice had risen. ‘You can be sure that I’ll be sensible about it. If I’ve waited this long . . .’ Kathleen carried the tray out to the kitchen and set it on the draining-board with a crash.
At eight o’clock they both left their rooms. Mr Maguire, his shoes burnished, wearing a tie and jacket, walked like the Duke of Edinburgh, one hand holding the other by the wrist behind his back. The night was windless and at intervals between the glare of the street lights they could see stars. Mary was conscious of her heels clicking on the paving stones and was relieved when she came to the softer tarmac footpath where she could walk with more dignity.
Mr Maguire cleared his throat and asked, ‘Well, did you think about what . . .?’
‘Yes, but don’t talk about it now. Talk about something else.’ Mr Maguire nodded in agreement and looked up at the sky for inspiration.
‘What is it that makes your life worthwhile?’
‘I don’t know.’ She laughed nervously and tried to give an answer. ‘What a strange question. I suppose I help children to learn something – the rudiments of another language. And I help Kathleen who cannot work . . .’
‘I don’t mean worthwhile to others. But to yourself.’
‘Sometimes, Mr Maguire, you say the oddest things. I’m sorry, I don’t see the difference.’
‘Take it from another angle. What makes you really angry?’
She felt her shoulder brush against his as they walked. ‘The kind of thing that’s been going on in this country. Killings, bombings . . .’
‘If you were to give one good reason to stop someone blowing your head off tonight, what would it be?’
‘I’ve jotters to correct for Monday.’ Mr Maguire laughed. ‘Well there’s that and children and love and Kathleen . . .’
‘And?’
‘And I’ve dresses I’ve only worn once or twice. And the sea. And the occasional laugh in the staffroom. Just everything.’
‘You would be part of the reason I would give.’
There was a long pause and Mary said, ‘Thank you. That’s very nice of you. But as I say I’d prefer to wait until we were settled inside before we have our little talk.’ Mr Maguire shrugged and smiled. Mary veered off to look in Madge’s Fashions which was still lit up. There was a single old-fashioned window model with painted brown hair instead of a wig. White flakes showed where the paint had chipped, particularly at the red fingernails.
‘They’ve changed this dress since yesterday,’ said Mary. ‘I like that one better.’ She joined Mr Maguire in the middle of the pavement still looking back over her shoulder.
They sat at the same table as the prevous night and Mr Maguire bought the same drinks.
‘They’ll be calling me a regular next,’ said Mary, as he slipped into the seat beside her. ‘Well now. I think . . . First of all let me say that I find it extremely difficult to talk in a situation like this. I’m out of my depth.’ She tried not to sound like she was introducing a lesson, but what she said was full of considered pauses. She spoke as quietly as she could, yet distinctly. ‘You are an interesting man, good – as far as I know you – but these are not reasons’, she paused yet again, ‘for anybody to get married. It has happened so quickly that there is an element of foolishness in it. And that’s not me.’
‘It’s me,’ said Mr Maguire, laughing.
‘There are so many things. I’m not a free agent. Kathleen has got to be considered.’
‘She can fairly talk.’
‘Yes, sometimes it’s like living with the radio on. She never expects an answer.’
‘Do you love her?’
‘I suppose I must. When you live with someone day in, day out, the trivial things become the most important.’ She sipped her sherry and felt the glass tremble between her fingertips. ‘And there are other things which frighten me. I don’t think I’m that sort of person.’ Mr Maguire looked at her but she was unable to hold his eye and her gaze returned to her sherry glass.
‘My wife was in poor health for many, many years – so that aspect of it should not worry you. I am in the habit of – not. I would respect your wishes. Although I miss someone at my back now when I fall asleep.’ Mary thought of herself slippery with sweat lying awake making sure to keep space between herself and Mr Maguire’s slow breathing body.
‘I can’t believe this is happening to me.’ She laughed and turned to face him, her hands joined firmly in her lap. ‘My answer is – in the kindest possible way – no. But why don’t you write to me? Why don’t you come and stay with us for longer next year? Writing would be a way of getting to know each other?’
‘Your answer is no – for now?’
‘Yes,’ said Mary. ‘I mean it’s ridiculous at our age.’
‘I don’t see why. Could I come at Christmas?’
She thought of herself and Kathleen in new dresses, full of turkey and sprouts and mince pies, dozing in armchairs and watching television for most of the day. The Christmas programmes were always the best of the year.
‘No. Not Christmas.’
‘Easter then?’
‘Write to me and we’ll see.’
Mr Maguire smiled and shrugged as if he had lost a bet.
‘You’ve kind of taken the wind out of my sails,’ he said.
The next morning when she got up Mr Maguire had gone. Kathleen had called him early and given him his breakfast. When he had paid his bill she had deducted a fair amount for the servicing of the car.
After Mass, surrounded by the reality of the Sunday papers, Mary thought how silly the whole thing had been. The more she thought about the encounter the more distasteful it became. She resolved to answer his first letter out of politeness but, she said firmly to herself, that would be the finish of it.
On Monday she was feeling down and allowed herself the luxury of a lesson, taught to four different levels throughout the day, in which she talked about Kandersteg, its cuckoo-clock houses and the good Herr Hauptmann.
THE GREAT PROFUNDO
THE RIVER WAS so full after the recent rains that the uprights of the bridge became like prows and for a time I was under the impression that the bridge, with myself on it, was moving rapidly forward. So absorbed was I in this illusion that I accepted the sound as part of it. It was high pitched and sentimental, sometimes submerged beneath the noise of the traffic, sometimes rising above it, full of quaverings and glissandi. My curiosity was aroused to see what instrument could make such a noise. Others must have been similarly drawn because a crowd of about fifty or sixty people had gathered i
n a ring on the left bank of the river – women shoppers, men with children on their shoulders, young fellows elbowing each other for a better position. In the centre stood a tall man speaking loudly and waving his arms. I edged forward and was forced to stand on tiptoe. Still I could not trace the source of the music which at that moment suddenly stopped. Now everyone’s attention was directed at the man in the centre whose eyes blazed as he shouted. He walked the cobblestones on bare feet, spinning on his heel now and again to take in the whole circle of the crowd. On the ground in front of him was a long, black case. With a flourish he undid the latches and flung open the lid. Inside was red plush but I could see little else from my position at the back.
‘It is not for nothing that I am called the Great Profundo,’ shouted the man. He wore a scarlet shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and the neck open, but his trousers looked shabby above his bare ankles. They bulged at the knees and were banded with permanent wrinkles at his groin. His hair was long and grey, shoulder length, but the front of his head was bald so that his face seemed elongated, the shape of an egg. He was not a well-looking man.
‘What you will see here today may not amaze you, but I’ll lay a shilling to a pound that none of you will do it. All I ask is your undivided attention.’
I noticed a figure sitting by the balustrade of the river who seemed to be taking no interest in the proceedings. He must have been the source of the earlier music because in his hand he had a violinist’s bow and, between his knees, a saw. The handle rested on the ground and the teeth of the saw pointed at his chest. He was muttering to himself as he began to pack these implements into a large holdall.
‘I want you to look closely at what I am about to show you.’ The Great Profundo stooped to his case and produced three swords. Épées. Rubbing together their metal cup handguards made a distinctive hollow shearing sound. He threw one to be passed around the crowd while he clashed and scissored the other two for everyone to hear.
‘Test it, ladies and gentlemen. Check that it’s not like one of these daggers they use on stage. The ones where the blade slips up into the handle. There are no tricks here, citizens; what you are about to see is genuine. Genuine bedouin.’
After much to-do he swallowed the three épées (they were thin with buttons at their ends no bigger than match-heads) and staggered around the ring, his arms akimbo, the three silvery cups protruding from his mouth. The audience was impressed. They applauded loudly and goaded him on to do something even more daring.
Next he produced what looked like a cheap imitation of a sword – the kind of thing a film extra, well away from the camera, would carry. It had a broad flat aluminium blade and a cruciform handle of some cheap brassy metal. He produced a twin for it and handed them both around the crowd while he cavorted on the cobblestones shouting interminably about his lack of trickery and the genuineness of what he was about to perform.
‘While I want your undivided attention, I would like you all to keep an eye out for the Law. They do not approve. They’ll turn a blind eye to trumpet players, tumblers and card-sharpers, but when it comes to the idea of a man putting himself into mortal danger on the public highway they have a very different attitude.’
The crowd immediately turned their heads and looked up and down the river-bank.
‘You’re okay,’ shouted a woman.
‘On you go.’
He took back both the swords from the crowd and held them to his chest. He straddled his legs, balancing himself, and put his egg-shaped head back, opening his mouth with an elaborate and painful slowness. I felt like saying, ‘Get on with it. Skip the palaver.’ The man swallowed both the swords, walked around the ring, staring skywards, then hand over hand extracted them to the applause of the crowd.
‘And NOW, ladies and gentlemen,’ the man shouted in a voice that heralded the finale of his act, glancing over his shoulder to check that the Law, as he called them, were not to be seen, ‘I will perform something which will be beyond your imagination.’
He reached into his black case and produced a sword – a long and heavy Claymore. He tried to flex it, putting all his weight on it with the sole of his bare foot, but was unable to; then with a mighty two-handed sweep he swung it at the cobblestones. It rang and sparks flew. He balanced it on its point. The blade alone seemed to reach to his receding hairline. He stood there letting the crowd take in the length of the sword he was about to swallow. He spread his arms. The spectators became silent and the noise of the traffic on the bridge was audible. He lifted it with feigned effort, balanced the blade for a moment on his chin, then lowered it hand over hand down his throat. To the hilt. When it was fully inserted the crowd cheered. Planting his bare feet, like someone in a dream, his head at right-angles to his body, I could hear even from my position at the back the harsh rasps of the performer’s breath escaping past the obstruction in his throat as he moved round the ring of people.
This time I was impressed. There was no physical way he could have swallowed that last sword – it would have had to come out of his toes. There was a trick somewhere but I joined in the applause as he withdrew the six-foot sword from his throat. At this point I felt someone push me, and the small man whom I had seen pack away his saw elbowed his way into the middle and extended his hat to begin collecting. My money was in one of my inner pockets and it would have meant unbuttoning my overcoat.
‘No change,’ I said.
‘It’s not change we want,’ said the saw-player and forced his way past me. As the crowd dispersed I hung around. The Great Profundo was packing his equipment into his case. After each item he would sweep back his long hair and straighten up. The saw-player was raking through the hat, taking out the coins of the highest denomination and arranging them into columns on the balustrade. The Great Profundo sat down to put on his boots.
‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ I said, dropping some coins into the hat. ‘I am a student at the University and I couldn’t help seeing your act. Very interesting indeed.’
‘Thank you,’ said Profundo. After all the shouting his voice sounded soft. ‘It’s nice to get praise from a man with certificates.’
‘Not yet, not yet. I’m still an undergraduate. I tell you I’m a student, not for any particular reason, but because I want to make a proposition to you.’ The Great Profundo looked up from his lace tying. I noticed he did not wear socks. ‘I am the treasurer of a society in the University which, once or twice a year, uses live entertainment. Would either, or both, of you gentlemen be interested in performing for us?’
‘How much?’ asked the saw-player from the balustrade.
‘We can afford only a small fee. But you may take up a collection at the actual function.’
‘If they gave as much as you did just now, there’d be no point,’ said the man counting the money.
‘What would the University want to look at the likes of us for?’ the Great Profundo said, smiling at the thought.
‘Our society certainly would. It’s called the “Eccentrics Genuine Club”. We meet every month and have a few pints, sometimes entertainment.’
This was not the whole truth. We had met twice that year, and on both occasions the entertainment had been female strippers.
‘Who?’ asked the saw-player.
‘Musicians. The occasional singer. That kind of thing.’
‘We’ll think about it,’ said the Great Profundo. He wrote out his address and I said I would contact him after the next committee meeting.
As I walked away from them I heard the saw-player say, ‘Eight pounds, some odds.’
‘If my mother was alive, Jimmy, she’d be proud of me. Going to the University.’ The Great Profundo laughed and stamped his boot on the ground.
The committee of the Eccentrics Genuine Club was delighted with the idea and even suggested a more generous sum of money than they had given to each of the strippers. However, divided between two entertainers, it still wasn’t enough. I made a speech in which I said that if they valued their reput
ation for eccentricity – haw-haw – they would fork out a little more. A saw-player and a sword-swallower on University territory! What a coup! Who could refuse, no matter what the cost? The committee eventually approved, somewhat reluctantly, twice the sum given to the strippers. And they had no objection to a collection being taken on the night of the performance.
With this news and the idea of interviewing him for the University newspaper, I drove to the Great Profundo’s. It was a part of the city where walls were daubed with slogans and topped with broken glass. I parked and locked the car. Then, seeing some children playing on a burst sofa on the pavement, I checked each door-handle and took my tape-recorder with me. It was an expensive one – the type professional broadcasters use – which my father had bought me when I’d expressed an interest in journalism.
Collected Stories Page 34