Madrigal

by John Gardner

  ‘You can cut the tom-tit, sergeant. I hold the rank of major and I don’t like tricky boys.’ Boysie almost regretted the violence latent in his voice as he spoke. Warbler’s hand dropped to Boysie’s forearm. Firm pressure. The British major looked down his nose. The sergeant looked insolent.

  ‘Ah’m sorry...suh.’ The poor timing of the ‘Suh’ was a masterpiece. ‘Ah’m sorry...suh, but we don’t understaynd that kinda talk where Ah come frowm.’ Deliberately doing a Southern drawl. ‘Suh? What is tom-tit, suh? Sure don’t know that, like what it means...suh.’

  The subaltern raised his precious head. ‘I believe it is what is known as rhyming slang, sergeant. It has cockney and Australian origins. Er—tom-tit, it means sh—’

  ‘We know what it means, Rothley.’ The major shearing the backchat.

  The sergeant’s face glowed into a huge smile. ‘Ah. Shit. Geeze. That’s good. Remember that, suh. Tom-tit.’

  Boysie did the bayonet thrust with his eyes, making them into slim daggers aimed straight at the American’s nose bridge. The left side of the mouth twitched unmercifully. Once more fear elbowed into its normal hiding place. The supreme effort. Anger was his only counter.

  ‘Let’s sit down, gentlemen.’ The major, rock-strong and edgy. ‘The—the major here’—indicating Boysie—‘he has to be put in the picture before we do this experiment. I gather that it is only an experiment?’ Looking long at Warbler.

  ‘A mere test exercise.’ A hairbreadth too smoothly from the German.

  ‘Right.’ The major with disbelief. ‘I’ll give you a run-down on the test then. Your job is to destroy the occupants sitting in the rear of a car moving at between twenty and thirty miles an hour through a reasonably well-lit street at night. You will be firing from a window roughly fourteen metres from the ground with a good view of the road on both sides. As you probably noticed on the way in, we have created these conditions here.’

  Boysie lifted his head in acknowledgement.

  The major did not pause. ‘You will be using a Mauser 98K fitted with the Hythe night-sight system. Familiar?’

  ‘I am familiar with all weapons.’ Anger at the sergeant’s attitude coupled with anxiety fused into a particularly uncooperative mood. Quite unlike Boysie. He began to wonder about himself. ‘The 98K’s okay,’ he said almost inaudibly; then louder, ‘a bit old but accurate enough. What am I going to use in it?’

  ‘Lieutenant Rothley will deal with ammunition in a moment. I’m only concerned with the test. We are going to run a normal type of target fast along the road for you to get accustomed to the firing point and range. Then we’ll try the real thing—a radio-controlled car, complete with dummy figures, which your friend here has laid on for us. We’ll run the car through on a radio beam, at around twenty-five mph once for you to do a test sighting. The second time you can do the real thing. Okay?’

  Boysie looked down at his feet, lips tight. Then, ‘Okay.’

  ‘Good. Now ammunition. Rothley’s in charge of that.’ Young Rothley knew his stuff even though he had the visage of a chinless, noseless wonder.

  ‘Well, sir.’ It was the sort of drawl you could hear nightly in places like The Blue Angel. For the ordinary target shoot we’ll use a normal 8-mm. round, but for the actual car we’re giving you an armour-plated 7.92. Centre of the bullet is hard steel with a soft lead exterior. If I may suggest, after you have fired on the approach, try to get a couple in near the base of the rear window. A couple of these.’ He had opened the green box, rolling out two cartridges on to the table. ‘With luck you might even take the back right off. Certainly cause extensive damage.’

  ‘Yes.’ Boysie flat, trying to sound unimpressed, again praying that Griffin would make it on time, trying to blot out the thought of steel penetrating the back of the car with Iris MacIntosh sitting unsuspecting and shocked by the sudden tear of bones and the flash of pain before eternal darkness.

  ‘Sergeant Gazpacho will be with you at the firing point.’ Rothley glanced apprehensively towards the American, who was making with the dead eyes.

  Boysie brightened. ‘Sergeant Gazpacho?’ Cheesy grimace. ‘Bet all your friends call you Soupy.’

  The sergeant wagged his head, the smile of a cadaver with its throat cut.

  ‘Top Sergeant Gazpacho is a first-class shot.’ The major twenty degrees below freezing point.

  ‘Sure lookin’ forward to seein’ what you can do...suh.’ Gazpacho unpleasant.

  ‘Let’s go and see then.’ Boysie’s voice coming out crisp while his guts crunched rapidly into small pieces. Cautiously he slid his hands behind his back so that no one would catch the tremble running from a point behind the neck down the arms, through the hands, and into the fingertips. A proving moment approached; he felt it; could smell it. It was essential that he should get the sergeant. A time for one- (even two- or three-) upmanship.

  A door at the far end of the hut opened, revealing an emaciated RCS corporal. ‘Target and radio control all set, sir.’ To the major.

  ‘Come along then, we’ll get it over. I shall be with the radio boys and Lieutenant Rothley. We’ll be in contact. R/T’s checked out, corporal?’

  ‘Sir.’ Affirmative.

  ‘Good shooting then. Mr.—er—Major—’

  Boysie looked blandly at the major and tried his know-it-all smile, then turned to the American. ‘After you, sergeant.’

  ‘Oh no, suh.’ Picking up the green ammunition box. ‘After you-all.’

  The climb up the outside of the tower was not Boysie’s most hilarious experience. Three feet off the ground had always been high enough for him. Up a scaffold ladder fourteen metres to a wooden box, in a heavy suede coat, with a Mauser slung round him, the cold sloshing over his hands and the stiff breeze shaking the whole structure was not fun. Worse, the sergeant turned out to be cattishly agile, well ahead of Boysie and through the entrance to the tower a good minute before Boysie’s head came level with the oblong opening. The first thing that came into view was Gazpacho’s left foot. The sergeant stood three or four paces from the open hatchway and the foot was not encased in a regulation GI boot. Instead, Gazpacho wore thin, mirror-polished shoes. So the sergeant is a dandy, thought Boysie. Even in this swaying, high, cold, anxious situation, clinging to the ladder’s final rung, Boysie did a mental slow smile. It was time for the old ‘Ouch’ trick.

  ‘You want some help through the hole, suh?’ Gazpacho not offering to move or stretch out a hand.

  Long deep breath through the nose. ‘I can get through any hole, Buddy.’ Boysie willed himself not to look down into the blackness below and heaved himself up through the entrance. Gazpacho still did not move. Boysie un-slung the Mauser, holding the rifle gently by the stock just above the trigger guard, butt down, and walked forward. The wooden plank floor bent and creaked unsteadily. Coming abreast of the sergeant, Boysie’s eyes did a quick flit downwards to align the rifle butt with the polished shoes. His right hand opened and the butt dropped with full force on the centre of Gazpacho’s shining footwear. It was all a matter of timing. At the moment of impact, Boysie moved in close and let out a loud yell of pain. Gazpacho jumped back. ‘Sorry…suh. Ahgghugh!’

  Boysie’s yell and the bruise of pain on the sergeant’s toes were just far enough apart to fuddle Gazpacho for five-tenths of a second before reaction. It was enough.

  ‘Sorry, chum,’ said Boysie cheerfully, grasping the rifle by the muzzle.

  Visibly, Gazpacho was attempting both to contain anger and control pain. Impossible. Round one, thought Boysie; now let’s scare the arse off him with the gun. He looked round. The bend of the floorboards did not help. The tower was small, roughly ten feet square and seven high. Light filtered yellow and foggy through the open oblong, which was the firing point at the far end. Boysie knew he had to relax. Whatever happened tomorrow night he was committed to going through his paces here. Relax. Relax. Gently.

  He reached into his left breast pocket (past the shoulder holster) and removed the skin
-tight black leather gloves he always used for rifle work. The sergeant watched without comment as Boysie played at being a brain surgeon preparing for a leucotomy. There was a shelf near the window. The sergeant hobbled forward, took down the small Vigilant transmitter/receiver, and, showing a certain amount of care with his left foot, squatted beside Boysie, the green box on the floor and the Vigilant nearby, now with aerial extended.

  ‘Ready for the target?’

  ‘Just give me a minute.’ Boysie closed his eyes. It had to be right. Deep breath; relax; loosen all muscles; he had done it a hundred times before. Clay pigeons; thirty-nine out of forty one afternoon in a matter of fifteen minutes with the .303, not twelve bore or scatter shot. He could knock the centre pip out of an ace of spades with any known gun at fifteen yards and rip it apart with most rifles at five hundred. This was only a target. A target and an empty car. Close your eyes. Breathe deeply.

  Boysie shifted to the left, towards the direction from which the target would come rolling up the road. He closed his eyes again. ‘Let ’em send it down.’

  Gazpacho pressed the mike switch. ‘Nightingale to Control. Ready for target. Over.’

  There was a pause. Boysie’s thumb slid off the safety lock.

  The major’s words came out pat. ‘Control to Nightingale. Target coming on a five count down. Five...four...three...’ Boysie opened his eyes. Butt into the shoulder. Sharp glance at the rear slide, then the cheek nuzzling against the weapon. ‘...two...one...zero.’

  It came faster than he expected, but the black bull was plainly visible right in line with the foresight blade and the rear V. Boysie got three shots in before the target passed below, then an easy two as it moved away out of sight.

  They waited in silence for the result. It took a full three minutes before the Vigilant crackled. The major’s voice portrayed minute respect.

  ‘Control to Nightingale. Point. Please give our congratulations to the major. Group of five centre of bull radius eight inches.’

  ‘Tell them not to bother with the dummy run. I’ll do the car in one. We’re wasting our time. And yours,’ said Boysie. He nearly repeated it, the sentence and delivery sounded so cool.

  Gazpacho passed on the message. A calmer, less cocky Gazpacho.

  ‘If that’s what he wants.’ The major placid over the Vigilant receiver. ‘Report when ready. Over.’

  ‘Give me the steel-core bastards then...sergeant.’

  Gazpacho handed over a clip of the 7.92 ammunition. Boysie reloaded the rifle, rested his eyes for a few seconds, then signalled the sergeant with a grunt. The radio procedure ran identically with the target shoot.

  This time Boysie saw it coming a long way off. The headlights dipped, a squat black shape. Again he managed five shots. The first, a little early and a shade low, knocked the rear near-side tyre. The car swerved violently across the road, spinning full circle. As it spun Boysie’s second bullet shattered the left window. This time the car was pushed right off the road, still moving away, decelerating. Three bullets into the back. Boysie saw the great gashes opening up the window and boot, heard the pathetic roar, whine, stumble, and final silence of the engine. Smoke began to filter from the car.

  ‘Cease fire. Cease fire.’ From the major at the other end of the transmitter. Boysie ejected the last empty cartridge case.

  ‘You heard the man,’ said Gazpacho.

  Boysie pressed down on the magazine in order to push the bolt home. He clicked the trigger, rolled over, and tossed the empty weapon casually towards the American.

  ‘Catch,’ said Boysie with a smile. ‘I’ll leave you to pick up the pieces.’

  Gazpacho gave him a killer look. Boysie had thrown with some force. One bruised foot and some sore ribs. Game, set, and match to the lad. Boysie glanced out of the firing-point opening. There was a lot of activity around the car. He humped himself into the suede driving coat. Gazpacho crawled around clearing up the spent cartridge cases. Boysie looked down; the green ammunition box lay open at his feet. It was divided into three portions marked with sticky labels: 8-mm., 7.92-mm. SC., and Dummy. There were four clips in each of the first two sections and three in the Dummy partition. Almost on impulse, Boysie slipped out a clip of dummies and popped them into his pocket. Subconsciously a plan was germinating: another escape route in case Griffin failed to materialise. Gazpacho still had his back to Boysie, limping and picking the empty cases from the creaking wood.

  ‘You look like a flower plucker,’ chanted Boysie as he made for the exit.

  Gazpacho mumbled something about the sexual habits of Boysie’s forebears.

  When Boysie reached the bottom of the ladder he realised that his legs were trembling. Queasy, that was the word. All confidence suddenly drained. He could all but see it flowing from him. The test was over. Unavoidable reaction had set in. A couple of yards away to the right, across the road, they had set up some sodium arc lights, there were vans. He recognised a big Stalwart support truck. The brightness of the lamps threw the scene into macabre relief. It had the feel of some shocking disaster. The major, subaltern, Warbler, and one or two others were gathered close around the wreckage. Someone was taking photographs, and there was an odd smell. As he crossed the road Boysie identified the odour. It was coming from himself, a combination of cordite and sweat—even in the cold, an unpleasant, hot, stinking sweat, which had associations with violence, fear, and death. As he got nearer the smell changed. Petrol fumes and smoke. A pair of asbestos-clad soldiers had foamed down the front of the automobile.

  ‘Ach, good shooting. They damage, those bullets, eh?’ Warbler cheery as an in-grouper at party time.

  ‘Damn good.’ The major really impressed, sounding as though he were talking to his jockey. ‘Lesson for everyone on my staff.’

  Boysie said nothing. The car looked hateful, jagged gashes into which a man could crawl. Inside, through the smoke which still drifted out from under the bonnet, the dummy figures were obscenely ripped apart. A head was entirely missing from one that had been strapped into the rear. The dashboard looked as though King Kong had gone to work on it with a sledgehammer. Embedded in one long crack—originally the main line of instruments—was a wooden arm from the man-sized doll driver.

  Boysie turned away, imagination coloured and working on truth. What is truth? Ideals? Imaginary? Fact? Realised fiction? He could not see imitation bodies, only the projected horrible things, the tangled hair, flesh, bone, and blood. As slowly as possible he walked away, trying to keep down the retching fluid as his stomach punched up, pulsing mechanically, lifting and controlled.

  ‘Jesus,’ blasphemed Boysie quietly. How the hell—? Why—?

  When they got back to the hotel Boysie made his now customary enquiry at the desk. Nothing. Without asking, Warbler followed him up to the fifth floor.

  ‘I offer you anything?’ Boysie hinting that Warbler was persona non grata. He glanced at his watch. Still reasonably early. Still time to call Mu-lan Tchen. Warbler spotted Boysie’s Freudian slip of sliding his eyes from watch to telephone.

  ‘Ach, comrade, I am sorry. We have been naughty. Your telephone will not work. Not tonight anyway. And no alcohol. We wish you to rest and sleep well. Please do as I say; it will be for the best. I would like you to go to the bathroom and get ready for bed. Coffee will be ordered, and I have a little pill here.’ He held what looked like a licorice torpedo between thumb and forefinger. ‘You will sleep until midday. Stay in bed and rest, order lunch. I will leave books for you to look at. Then I will come personally at about four.’

  ‘Ah, now come on.’

  Warbler shook his head. ‘As far as the hotel authorities are concerned, you are my patient. Dr. Warbler’s patient. I will leave special instructions.’

  The manipulation of circumstances had passed out of Boysie’s hands. With realisation came resignation. He removed the suede coat and hung it carefully in the wardrobe, hoping Warbler would not start searching the pockets. Without a word he headed for the bathroom, picki
ng up the mauve silk pyjamas, slinkily spread across the bed, on the way. The feel of the silk caused a reactive twitch in his loins. (‘North China. You know Chinese silk? That is where I come from. Shantung.’)

  Coffee was waiting when Boysie returned. He tried to pretend Warbler was not even there. It was all a gigantic embarrassment. A compromising bad dream. Warbler poured the coffee, chattering all the time.

  ‘Two books I am leaving. You might as well enjoy yourself tomorrow night. It is a great thing to see the Berlin Ensemble. Especially in Dreigroschenoper.’

  ‘Can’t wait.’ Boysie dead-pan.

  ‘Now, a nice cup of coffee and this tiny pill.’

  Boysie sighed and reached out for the proffered cup and sedative. Warbler talked on quietly. The coffee was cool and the capsule went down easily. Warber continued to talk. Boysie took two more sips of coffee before the cup and saucer began to slip. Warbler stretched forward and removed the coffee. Boysie’s hands sank peacefully on to the bedclothes, his head lolled, and the breathing took on a peaceful, heavy rhythm. Warbler put down the cup, switched off the lights, and left quietly.

  *

  It was like being wrapped snugly in a warm, black-velvet bag. No dreams, colours, or sensations. Death, or the time before conception. Utter unknowing until first one layer of velvet was removed; then, slowly, another; and another. Boysie felt his body drifting to life. Conscious of toes, feet, shins, thighs, belly, and chest. Next the fingers, hands, wrists, arms, shoulders, neck, and head. His eyes snapped open. It was like the snapping of a hypnotist’s thumb and forefinger. Fully alert, no hangover; all senses operating and a feeling of well-being. He moved voluptuously under the soft feather comforter.

  ‘This is the life.’ He sang softly, reaching out for a cigarette. The two books lay next to his packet of B&H Filters. Memory. Nausea. Tonight. Iris. Tomorrow?

  Boysie’s hand wavered over the cigarettes, paused, and moved on to the telephone. Nothing but a hollow buzz. Banging at the receiver rests made no difference. In the end he gave up, pressed the bell for Room Service, opened the bedside drawer and took out his Hugo’s How To Get All You Want When Travelling in Germany, riffled the pages to. the section on ‘Ordering a Dinner’ (‘Give me the bill of fare’ was the first phrase). He looked at his watch. Warbler’s prediction had been pretty accurate. It was just after midday. Happily, when the waiter arrived, he spoke English and behaved with the old-world charm of the Admirable Crichton. Having been spared groping through Geben Sie mir die Speisekarte, Boysie decided to go through the condemned-man routine and stuff himself. The Bristol Kempinski had already proved itself a peer for gourmets. Pôtage Crème de crevettes (Boysie had a grand passion for shrimps); poulet sauté à la bordelais with pommes lyonnaise (Boysie was a martyr to onions but who cared) and petites pois. To round it off, some of their excellent Pflaumenkuchen, which, after all, was only a fancy German name for greengage tart. Oh, and half a bottle of Dom Perignon ’55. Yes, sir, and of course the waiter would see if there was any mail or messages to be sent directly to his room.