Ulrich Haarbürste's Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm

by Ulrich Haarbürste

  I repress a chuckle and seem to hear Roy, do the same, although it is very hard to tell beneath the several cubic feet of clingfilm encompassing him. Jetta paws at her Elektra mask as though she is unable to vent her mirth while wearing it, although perhaps she merely wishes to be free of it in any event.

  The roadie paces all around Roy, scratching his head in puzzlement. Finally I let him in on the secret.

  “That is Mr. Roy Orbison!” I say.

  “Unglaublich,” says the man. “This must be some uncanny kind of magic!”

  “No, my fellow,” I say. “Or at least—only the magic of clingfilm!”

  From within the clingfilm megalith I seem to hear a vaulting tenor chuckle.

  So it is proven that our disguise is able to deceive a humble roadie.

  But will it suffice to get him past the vigilance of the waiting rock journalist . . . ?

  For that, my friends, you will just have to wait to find out . . .

  Chapter 6

  You may recall that at the end of the last chapter I had satisfactorily tested Roy’s clingfilm disguise on the unsuspecting roadie.

  Now, read on to discover whether it will work on the rock journalist waiting to importune Roy with various tiresome questions about plectrums and crowd safety and so forth.

  “Fetch a trolley,” Roy’s muffled voice orders the roadie, for this time he is wrapped in clingfilm to such a depth he would be unable to even hop or shimmy.

  “I will do so,” replies the roadie.

  He does so.

  We load the Roy/Clingfilm monolith onto the trolley and push him toward the exit where the Rolling Stone journalist is waiting vigilantly. Seeing that everyone else is in disguise, even my terrapin Jetta, the roadie feels left out and dons the head of the pantomime horse.

  “There is nothing to see here,” I say as we wheel Roy past the loitering hack.

  “Hold a second please,” says the journalist, perhaps scenting a story.

  “Yes?” I say politely.

  “I was hoping to have a word with Mr. Roy Orbison, that well-known man in black, in order to canvass his opinion on sundry matters of import to our readers.”

  “Also?” I say attentively, thoughtfully stroking my false beard. Next to me the horse-headed roadie bridles nervously but I keep cool and Jetta is impassive behind her Elektra mask. “I wish you luck finding him,” I say courteously.

  “May I inquire what you are pushing on the trolley?”

  I think quickly. “An entirely unremarkable and nondescript man-sized mass of clingfilm we are taking to be measured out of reasons of curiosity,” I say smoothly.

  “Also,” says the journalist. “I confess to being curious about that large mass of clingfilm myself. It seems to me I see certain shadows lurking in its depths which, while not immediately recognizable, nonetheless strike me as indefinably familiar.”

  “So?” I say. “But then, without wishing to cast aspersions, you are a rock journalist and as such have doubtless damaged your brain with a series of late nights and poorly lit concerts.”

  “It is true,” says the man sadly. “I do not remember the time when I was last in bed at a reasonable hour and my brain is no longer to be relied upon.”

  I say, “I do not blame you, for zeal in your chosen profession almost requires such a lifestyle. But the taxation on your strength may perhaps lead you into mental error. Furthermore clingfilm can be a very deceptive substance; therein lies its eternal mystery. I may say that, although I keep regular hours, I have at times seen unusual apparitions in clingfilm myself when I have studied it for long enough.”

  “I will detain you no longer,” says the man.

  “Good luck with your lonely vigil,” I say.

  We bow and wheel Roy out into the street and the overhelpful roadie all too soon releases him from his clingfilmy carapace.

  “Our stratagem succeeded at all points,” says Roy. “Now my way is clear to make a getaway. Return the trolley to where you found it and tidy up after us,” he instructs the attentive roadman. “Strike the stage and have it forwarded to our next destination. Our gypsy rock caravan next convenes at Aachen.”

  “Your instructions will be obeyed.” He departs.

  “Now,” says Roy. “I have a show business party to attend. As you have been of inestimable service to me tonight perhaps you and Jetta would like to join me.”

  “We should be delighted!”

  “So. Accompany me down this street.”

  I start to accompany Roy down the street but after several steps he stops suddenly with a look of dismay!

  “Ach,” says Roy. “This is a source of disappointment. I failed to remember that the party is to be a fancy dress party and I neglected to obtain a costume. We will not be able to attend after all.”

  Now what can take place! You do not know. But if you wait for the next chapter you will find out. In this matter you are but puppets on my string.

  Chapter 7

  In the surprising climax of the last chapter an unfortunate situation had arisen wherein Roy looked unable to attend a show business party due to a regrettable lack of a costume.

  Is he in fact doomed to be excluded from the gathering of his entertainment peers. . .? Read on and all will be made plain.

  First I must assure you that I have not forgotten that in chapter two I remarked that a terrible irony was concealed in Roy’s statement that it was impossible to mistake him for anyone else. You have been waiting patiently to find out why this was, but the time to tell you is not yet. As a novelist I must keep many pots on the boil and I cannot attend to everything at once. But you will be given the relevant information when it becomes needful to know and in the meantime the protracted suspense is part of the enjoyment.

  So. Now with chapter seven.

  “I am sorry to have cruelly dashed your hopes,” says Roy, forlorn. “But we cannot attend a costume party without costumes or we will be shamed for our lack of zeal. I for one will not brook this.”

  “Nor I,” I say. I tickle Jetta’s nose thoughtfully. “And yet . . . perhaps there is a way we can still attend.”

  “I fail to see it,” says Roy. “Even your notably fertile resourcefulness is not equal to this problem, my friend.”

  “At least allow me to try,” I implore. “After all, perhaps there is some answer so simple it is staring us in the face.” Idly I finger a certain cylindrical object in an inner pocket. “Perhaps there is some way we could . . . improvise costumes, from everyday substances near at hand.”

  “Improvising will not suffice,” says Roy. “Not just any costume will do. Rivalry is fierce in rock circles and if I am to make a splash at the party my outfit must be both witty and eye-catching.”

  “Hmm,” I say. “Plainly this will require some thought.”

  “Think away but I am at a loss as to what you can possibly come up with.”

  I stroke my false beard and pontificate.

  “Let us take it in logical steps and perhaps we will manage to arrive at a solution,” I say. “To be witty your dress must be something appropriate and yet with a surprising twist, is it not so?”

  “It is so,” says Roy.

  “Also. What would be appropriate to you? What are your remarkable features? One thing occurs to me. You are an Emperor of Rock Music, are you not?”

  “I do not wish to speak boastfully,” says Roy.

  “Then I will do so for you! You are an Emperor of Rock. So. Perhaps your costume should be something appropriate to an emperor.”

  “Your logic is tortuous and yet I cannot deny it has a certain validity,” says Roy.

  “So. What else does one think about in connection with you? I will tell you one thing: your dark clothing. It is something of a trademark with you, is it not?”

  “It would be foolish to deny it.”

  “In fact, you never wear anything else, is that not the case?”

  “That is the case,” Roy concedes.

  “Very good,” I s
ay. “Also. What could be more surprising than for you to come to the party in some new clothes?”

  “Very little,” says Roy. “It would be an occasion for comment and some good-natured raillery.”

  “So. What we must try to think of is a costume that says ‘Emperor’ and yet also says ‘New clothes,’ must we not?”

  “It appears we must,” says Roy.

  “Then with this in mind let us brainstorm and endeavor to think of such an outfit.”

  “Perhaps if I was to dress as Napoleon and yet wear a brightly colored Rasta beanie in place of his trademark bicorne hat,” says Roy.

  “A capital idea,” I say uneasily. “Yet how are we to obtain a Napoleon costume, to say nothing of a Rasta beanie?”

  “Ach,” says Roy. “That is a drawback.”

  I place a finger on my lips and hum thoughtfully.

  “You know,” I say at length, “I believe I have the glimmerings of an idea. . .”

  What can my idea be? You would venture almost anything to find out but I will not tell you until the next chapter.

  Chapter 8

  In this chapter you will find out whether Roy is to attend his show business party and what costume he can possibly wear.

  At first glance it would appear that it is impossible to find a costume, but such is not the case . . .

  “Tell me, Roy,” I say, “are you familiar with the famous tale of the Emperor’s New Clothes, in which an emperor is completely garbed in a splendid outfit made out of a perfectly transparent material?”

  “Heaven!” says Roy. “I am assuredly familiar with it and a costume based on this fable would meet the case perfectly, being both provocative and subtly self-mocking. Yet how are we to convey this concept in such a way that it will not merely be mistaken for indecent exposure?”

  “Perhaps,” I venture, “if we were to garb you in a material which is completely transparent and yet not quite invisible as it has the property of catching fugitive twinkles of light in the most mischievous way?”

  “That would meet the case perfectly, and yet I do not believe such a miracle substance as you describe can possibly exist.”

  I cough diffidently and withdraw a roll of clingfilm from my clingfilm pocket. “With all due respect, Roy—I beg to differ.”

  “Ach so!” says Roy. “Then the way is plain. You will garb me in a splendid outfit of clingfilm at once.”

  I nod my assent. “As you wish.”

  With trembling hands I locate the end of the roll and prepare to begin. But a difficulty arises.

  “Should I not first remove my black clothing?” says Roy.

  The thought of Roy without his trademark black clothing makes me somewhat uneasy and confused. “I do not believe that will be necessary,” I say. “Even worn over your normal clothes the splendid outfit of clingfilm will be sufficient to create the impression we wish to convey.”

  “Very well,” says Roy. “You may commence.”

  I start at the ankles and work my way up. I am like some gentleman’s outfitter privileged to work with the most gossamer-light fabric yet invented. I must wrap each limb individually and with a minimum of layers so as to obtain the effect of a set of splendid transparent robes. In this instance I may not wrap his head but I fashion a wonderful crown of clingfilm and set it atop him. As a final touch I contrive a flowing clingfilm cape such as some happy emperor of a clingfilm-based kingdom might be attired in and affix it to his shoulders. Soon, Roy Orbison is completely garbed in clingfilm. I sink to my knees with rapture and stare wonderingly at my own fingers in stunned disbelief at the magic that is within them.

  “You are completely garbed in clingfilm,” I tell him.

  “Capital,” says Roy. “Now we may go. My only fear is that someone else at the party may have hit upon the same costume.”

  Will someone else be wearing the same costume or will Roy be the belle of the ball? Fiend that I am, I shall force you to await the next chapter to find out!

  Chapter 9

  Previously in this saga it has been related how I contrived a splendid costume of clingfilm for Roy that he might wipe the eye of his show business rivals at the fancy dress party. But the fulcrum of suspense was, would anyone else have hit upon the same costume?

  Read on and the answer will not elude you.

  Quickly I attend to costumes for myself and Jetta. I remove the Elektra mask from Jetta and place my false beard on her back, so that she will resemble some shaggy Ice Age proto-terrapin of the Pleistocene era. For myself I retrieve the pantomime horse head from where the roadie discarded it and insert the empty clingfilm tube into its neck and secure it there with a few deft twists of clingfilm so that it in effect becomes a hobby horse. Clutching this as if riding it, I place the Elektra mask on the top of my head so as to act as a makeshift riding hat. It is my hope that I will thus resemble Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet.

  Roy is at first unsure of this. “I perceive that Jetta is some shaggy throwback to the time of glaciers, but may I inquire what your costume is?” he says.

  “I am Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet,” I say.

  “Also,” says Roy. The trademark dark glasses study me for some time. “The resemblance is not exact but it works on an impressionistic level,” he concludes.

  “If need be I will say ‘Whoa’ and ‘Giddy up’ to reinforce the effect,” I say.

  “Capital,” says Roy. “I believe we will make a splash. My one admonition is that if Elizabeth Taylor should happen to be at the party you must pretend to be Tatum O’Neal in International Velvet.”

  “I will do so.”

  “Then let us make to the party.”

  I follow Roy along several streets to the house where the party is. Roy gives a final adjustment to his splendid clingfilm regalia and rings the doorbell.

  Appropriately enough the door is answered by Jim Morrison out of the Doors. The irony does not escape me but I decide not to risk remarking upon it at this stage.

  “Welcome to the party,” says Jim Morrison. “You may enter.”

  We wipe our feet and enter the house.

  “So,” says Jim Morrison looking Roy up and down. “The Emperor’s New Clothes. I wish I had thought of that and confess to some envy.”

  “Eat your liver out, Morrison,” says Roy.

  “I admit myself bested,” says Jim Morrison.

  “It is all thanks to my tailor,” says Roy magnanimously, “and a certain substance that has proved its usefulness on more than one occasion tonight . . . ”

  Jim Morrison regards myself and Jetta. “And here we have some sort of groovy hippy terrapin and Tatum O’Neal in International Velvet.”

  “That is close enough,” I say generously. I perceive that Morrison is wearing a buckskin loincloth and a feather in his hair. “May I say I admire your Pocahontas costume?” I add.

  “I am an Indian shaman,” says Jim Morrison briefly.

  We follow him into the living room. There I see Yul Brynner, that well-known actor with no hair, sitting on a couch next to Mitzi Klavierstuhl, the sprightly weathergirl from Guten Abend Düsseldorf, Jetta’s favorite celebrity. They are trading urbane small talk and show business gossip but at our entrance Yul Brynner rises courteously and says, “Welcome to my party.”

  “Hello, Yul,” I say. “What are you doing in Düsseldorf?”

  “Filming a further installment in the Magnificent Seven saga,” he replies. “Certain sections of old Düsseldorf have a borderline resemblance to a nineteenth-century Texan cattle town.”

  “Also?” I say. “I had not noted it.”

  “It is not so striking,” Yul Brynner admits. “Frankly my location scout may have outlived his efficiency.”

  Yul has his arms folded and is wearing oriental pants. He is either reprising his role from The King and I or dressed as Jeannie from I Dream of Jeannie. After the debacle with Jim Morrison’s costume I decide not to venture a compliment but instead to keep my ears open for any clues which may be dr
opped.

  Yul Brynner meanwhile has no hesitation in admiring our outfits and proves to have a keen eye. “The Emperor’s New Clothes,” he says. “Congratulations, Roy, a triumph of the costumier’s art. It is a capital drollery which works on several different levels. And here we have . . . some sort of shaggy Ice Age proto-terrapin of the Pleistocene era, I believe. And Roy, I had not known you were dating Elizabeth Taylor!”

  I hesitate for a moment, fearing perhaps my costume may be too good and will lead to scandalous rumor, but then Roy chuckles and so do I.

  Yul Brynner says, “May I introduce you to Mitzi Klavierstuhl, the effervescent weathergirl of Guten Abend Düsseldorf and a platonic friend of mine?”

  “We have met before,” says Roy, bowing. “There are few strangers in the world of show business.”

  Mitzi Klavierstuhl says, “Roy, I apologize for failing to predict the unexpected rainstorm which menaced the finale of your concert. I hope the performance was not interrupted.”

  Roy bows to me and says, “I was able to escape wetness thanks to the offices of my good friend Ulrich Haarbürste, a local man of commendable diligence whom I now have the honor to introduce to you.”

  I bow to Mitzi Klavierstuhl. “You probably hear this all the time,” I say, “but my terrapin perks up whenever you appear on the screen.”

  Mitzi Klavierstuhl smiles graciously and says, “Thank you, and please write to our advertisers and tell them the same thing.”

  “I will do so,” I say. “May I present her?”

  “By all means.”

  “Her name is Jetta.”

  I present Jetta to Mitzi Klavierstuhl, who says, “You are to be complimented on your terrapin-grooming skills. On Guten Abend Düsseldorf we are confronted with many splendid animals but your terrapin is of a prize-winning caliber. May I hold her?”

  “She would be delighted!” I pass Jetta to Mitzi Klavierstuhl, who makes the kind of soft cooing noises people tend to make who do not realize you may talk to terrapins quite ordinarily. Jetta looks frankly starstruck for a second as Mitzi Klavierstuhl holds her, her head protruding all the way out of her carapace in a way that usually indicates she wishes to look at something closely, then recovers her dignity somewhat and affects nonchalance.