Yul Brynner claps his hands and says, “To everything its season. Enough urbane small talk for now. Let us sit comfortably and the party may commence!”
This chapter has now gone on for some time and you may be tired out so I will call a break. It is somewhat irregular to end without a cliff-hanger but until the next chapter you may content yourselves with speculating on what the show business party will be like. . .
Chapter 10
Without any ado I will commence chapter ten. It is usual and polite to have a certain amount of preamble before resuming the action but in this case I will dispense with it as there was no cliff-hanger last time.
If you recall Yul Brynner had just ordered that everyone should sit comfortably so that the party could commence in an orderly fashion.
And may I say, I hope that you too are seated comfortably, dear reader! For this is necessary if your attention is not to wane. I do not advocate a slovenly posture, as this may lead to problems in later life, but a certain degree of comfort will certainly enhance the experience.
Also. I will now resume.
“So,” says Yul Brynner when we are all sitting comfortably, “now the party may begin.”
He claps his hands and flunkeys come in from the kitchen bearing all manner of party foods, which they place on the table.
“Let us commence to eat, drink and be merry,” says Yul Brynner. “You will find there are all manner of good party foods provided: caviar, vol-au-vents, peanuts, custard, jelly, trifle, cucumber sandwiches and cocktail sticks with cubes of cheese upon them. Do not stint yourselves for the supplies are virtually limitless. Various beverages are available on request.”
With murmurs of gratitude at his largesse we commence to sample the manifold delights.
“But hold!” cries Yul, smacking his trademark bald head. “I am neglecting your terrapin Jetta!” He claps his hands again to summon a flunkey. “Fetch a bowl of prime Pomeranian worms at once,” he orders.
“Prime Pomeranian worms!” I gasp. “That is manna from heaven for a terrapin.”
Yul folds his arms and smiles. “Only the best for the guests at my party.”
“Yul Brynner is renowned throughout the show business world for the hospitality of his table,” says Jim Morrison, somewhat muffled by a mouthful of jelly.
The flunkey returns with a bowl of prime Pomeranian worms and Yul points out to whom they are to be delivered. Jetta blinks slowly in astonishment and then falls to with great gusto.
“Now,” says Yul Brynner, consulting a clipboard, “the next item on the agenda is the awarding of prizes for the fancy dress competition.”
I hold my breath in anticipation. Jim Morrison puts down his jelly and leans forward eagerly. Roy’s eyes are unreadable behind his dark glasses but Mitzi Klavierstuhl, who carries a large hammer and is either Thor the Weather God or Martin Luther preparing to nail his theses to the door of the church in Wittenberg, looks studiedly nonchalant.
“After due deliberation,” says Yul Brynner, “I have decided to award the prizes as follows. . .”
I am tempted to make you await the next chapter to find out but it would be naked cruelty to do so, so I shall refrain.
“The first prize goes to Roy for the Emperor’s New Clothes! The second prize is awarded to Jetta the terrapin for her hairy Pleistocene throwback costume. Mitzi comes third for Thor the Weather God. Honorable mention goes to Ulrich Haarbürste for most creative use of a horse’s head.”
Roy seems gratified while Jim Morrison hisses with chagrin. As for myself, honorable mention is not bad considering I threw the costume together at the last minute. Flunkeys cough politely and present us with small inscribed trophies.
“May I now discard my costume?” asks Mitzi Klavierstuhl. “This hammer is somewhat heavy.”
“By all means,” says Yul Brynner.
“However, I shall feel out of things being the only one uncostumed.”
“I shall accompany you,” says Roy gallantly, and somewhat to my regret removes his splendid costume, leaving him once more sadly bereft of clingfilm.
“Now we are very relaxed indeed,” says Yul Brynner. “I believe it is time for some party games.”
“Musical chairs,” urges Jim Morrison.
“Musical statues,” suggests Roy.
“Grease-the-piggy-sideways,” says Mitzi Klavierstuhl.
“We may come to such sports in the fullness of time,” says Yul Brynner. “To my mind there is only one way to launch a successful party, and that is with a game of pass-the-parcel. I confess to being a fiend for it. It is a capital diversion which works on several different levels.”
“It is so,” says Roy. “There is nothing quite so certain to break the ice and make a party go with a swing.”
“Then it is agreed,” says Yul. “We will start with pass-the-parcel. Therefore, Roy, I will ask you to hand me the parcel I instructed you to prepare and we may commence.”
Roy is mute and unmoving.
Yul says, “Did you not hear me, Roy? I asked you to hand me the parcel I told you to bring.”
Roy says, “Regrettably I find I neglected to bring such a parcel.”
A silence falls. My palms sweat on Roy’s behalf.
“Ach,” says Yul Brynner, “this is a grave disappointment. . .”
Will the party be ruined by Roy’s mistake? Or is there some way this mischance can be turned into an unexpected source of joy?
No man can read the future. But you, fortunate reader, can wait to read the next chapter!
Chapter 11
At the end of the last chapter it was revealed that Roy had omitted to bring a parcel to pass in pass-the-parcel.
There is a silence in the room save for the minute sounds of Jetta steadily working her way through the prime Pomeranian worms. The fate of the party is undoubtedly in jeopardy.
Or . . . is it? Read on and you shall see.
I cough discreetly and say, “If you permit me, Roy, it is naughty of you to tease Yul in that way. We have assuredly brought a pass-the-parcel parcel and have left it in the front hall.” I do not dare to wink but try to convey through my tone that I have something up my sleeve. Or as it happens, in an inner pocket . . . (Although, come to think of it, I do also have a certain something up my sleeve, for emergencies.)
“. . . That is so,” says Roy uncertainly.
“Also!” says Yul Brynner. “I am man enough to accept a little teasing and I confess that the relief I am experiencing now the truth has been revealed is not unpleasurable.”
“But hold,” says Jim Morrison, frowning, “I saw no parcel in the front hall.”
I say, “With all due respect, Jim, you are a self-destructive Dionysian figure and as such have doubtless corroded your brain with a sequence of deferred bedtimes and shamanistic frenzies.”
“It is so,” says Jim Morrison sadly. “I have felt somewhat out of things since the early 1970s. I am able to see into mystic realms but my brain is not to be relied upon for ordinary purposes of verification.”
“Then if you will permit, Yul, we will now retrieve the parcel.”
“You may do so,” says Yul Brynner. “And hurry, for if I do not unwrap something soon I will not be answerable for the consequences.”
Roy and I rise and bow and make to the front hall.
“I have proved myself a bungler,” says Roy. “My lack of diligence has been a source of shame and discredit.”
“You have had much on your mind tonight, Roy.”
“Nonetheless my lapses have brought me to the brink of humiliating social disaster,” says Roy. “Thank heaven for your quick wits. I perceived your plan in a flash.”
“You did?” I say, surprised.
“Indeed,” says Roy. “Our course is clear. We will flee the party and banish ourselves to a distant province. Perhaps we may enlist in the French Foreign Legion and attempt to find redemption under the harsh desert sun. We will be forced to abandon Jetta but Yul is too honorable a man to punish
her for our failings.”
“Also,” I say carefully. “That is certainly a possibility. But what if I could present an alternative to an ignominious exile?”
“I would certainly seize on it,” says Roy. “I admit it would grieve me never to see the cleanly boulevards of Düsseldorf again.”
“Then may I relate my plan?”
“Proceed to expound it,” says Roy, “but I confess to some scepticism that the situation can be retrieved. If Yul is not given a parcel to unwrap his wrath will be implacable. I would rather endure a lifetime beneath the savage suns of Africa sampling the redundant complexities of French cuisine than feel the whiplash of his scorn.”
“Then,” I say, “we must give him a parcel to unwrap!”
“I am at a loss as to what you can possibly have in mind,” says Roy. “For one thing we have no newspaper and if we venture out in search of some we will be forced to ring the doorbell to gain readmittance, thus rendering our subterfuge transparent to even the meanest intellect. Furthermore, we are without sticky tape.”
“If I may make so bold, Roy, there are other substances besides newspaper which are very, very good for wrapping things in,” I say, “and one in particular I can think of which has the miraculous property of staying wrapped around something without need of any sticky tape whatsoever . . .”
I withdraw a roll of clingfilm from my inner pocket with a flourish.
“Ach so,” says Roy, “I begin to see the light. But hold! What can we possibly wrap in this miracle substance to serve as the prize?”
“That,” I say, “will require some thought . . .”
What will be the outcome of my thought? That is for me to know and you to wring your hands over until the next installment . . .
Chapter 12
Cast your minds back and you will see that at the end of the last chapter Roy and I had decided to improvise a pass-the-parcel parcel out of clingfilm.
But, what could possibly be interred in this parcel in order to serve as a prize? Continue to read and before many minutes have passed you will be much the wiser.
“Come,” I say, “let us put our heads together.”
“By all means,” says Roy.
“You know,” I say, “the lack of a conventional prize to be wrapped may work to our advantage. Instead, perhaps we could wrap some completely surprising item the revelation of which would make this the best party ever and you the undisputed Mr. Fun of the entertainment kingdom.”
“At present that title is held by Johannes Doppelzimmer, the puckish arts-and-crafts correspondent of Guten Abend Düsseldorf, ” says Roy. “I confess I would love to steal his crown.”
“Doppelzimmer, pfui,” I say disparagingly. “You are ten times the madcap.”
“He has a deft way with the use of joy buzzers,” says Roy doubtfully.
“You leave it to me and once word of this party gets round Doppelzimmer’s antics will seem as stale as yesterday’s leftovers in the dark days before the invention of clingfilm,” I promise. I knit my brows thoughtfully for some seconds. “I have it! What if you were to be wrapped in the parcel, and, at a climactic moment, burst forth from the last piece of wrapping and shout, ‘Surprise!’?”
Roy is silent a moment. “You are the greatest gagman since Chaplin,” he says at last. “No party should be planned without retaining you as a consultant in matters of tomfoolery and mirth. Such a prank would be talked about long after we have gone down to dust. The way is clear. You will wrap me in a pass-the-parcel parcel of clingfilm and convey me to the living room at once.”
I bow. “As you wish, Roy.”
“Commence,” says Roy.
I start from the ankles and work my way up. This situation calls for unusual demands of my art and yet could be my greatest triumph to date. I work thoughtfully and with diligent attention to results but still with an almost unbearable ecstasy coursing through my veins. In this case there must be many layers, but the clingfilm must be broken from the roll in smallish lengths before being applied to Roy, so that when the parcel is unwrapped each person is allowed to remove an interesting amount and yet the enigma of the contents is left intact for several rounds. Nevertheless, before too long Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in clingfilm. Celestial choirs seem to burst forth and give vent to their joy.
“You are completely wrapped in clingfilm,” I announce.
But then something strikes me.
“. . . Apart from your feet!” I add.
This will never do. If Roy’s shoes are to remain unwrapped then it will not really be a parcel and there will certainly be little mystery as to the contents. I point this out to Roy and he gives vent to a muffled exclamation that sounds like “ach.”
I think quickly. “The way is plain,” I say. “I must lay you horizontally on the floor so as to be able to obtain access to your feet.”
There is a muffled noise that sounds like “Commence.” I gently lower Roy to the floor and set to work again.
I start at the ankles and work my way down. I cannot help noting and approving how immaculately kept his shoes are. I work breathlessly but competently, not even omitting the soles of his shoes. Soon, Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in clingfilm, even his feet. My eyes roll round in my head and I start to babble and prophesy in several regional dialects.
“You are completely wrapped in clingfilm,” I say, “even your feet.”
“Capital,” says the muffled Roy.
With some difficulty I pick up the parcelled Roy and carry him into the living room.
How will the unusual parcel be received? Aha, but you must sit upon your curiosity until the next chapter.
Chapter 13
Those who remember chapter twelve will recall that I had wrapped Roy in a pass-the-parcel parcel of clingfilm so that the party might go with a swing. For my part, I might add, it has already accomplished this purpose.
I return to the living room carrying Roy horizontally.
“My word,” says Yul Brynner, “that is a parcel of the most magnificence. But why has Roy been so remiss as to allow you to carry it on your own? And why does he now remain in the front hall instead of rejoining our circle of gaiety?”
“Regrettably while we were fetching the parcel Roy was struck down with an unspecified ailment of a nature not likely to be life-threatening but likely to impair his social functioning and joie de vivre,” I say smoothly. “He has gone home, shutting the door quietly, and conveys his apologies.”
“Ach,” says Yul, folding his arms, “I am displeased at this turn of events. I call Roy a jibber and a poor stick for these actions. By his deeds he has placed the success of the whole party in jeopardy. I knew I should have invited Johannes Doppelzimmer in his stead.”
“Doppelzimmer, there is a man,” concurs Jim Morrison.
“He is a deft hand at grease-the-piggy-sideways,” says Mitzi, “and he has raised the palming of joy buzzers to the level of an art form.”
“Decidedly we should have invited Doppelzimmer.”
From within the parcel I seem to hear a vaulting tenor snigger. Little do they suspect . . .
“In fairness to Roy,” says Yul Brynner, brightening, “I must say that he has wrought a pass-the-parcel parcel of almost Babylonian splendor. I cannot wait to get at it.”
“Perhaps on the other hand,” I suggest diffidently, “we should leave it inviolate until the very end of the party so as not to risk anticlimax?”
“Pah,” says Yul, folding his arms again and pouting, “that is a foolish idea. Who can concentrate on jelly or grease-the-piggy-sideways when there is a fine big parcel to be unwrapped? Let us have at it before I burst with the tension.”
He claps his hands and flunkeys bring a record player into the room. As I have no interest in unwrapping Roy I volunteer to work the music and Yul does not object.
I reflect thoughtfully that life is very strange and no man can fathom the mysteries of human nature. Some people, like Yul, like to unwrap things, and some
other people like very very much to wrap up one thing or another in a certain substance or another . . .
Which is better? Who can say . . .
In fact I can say very definitely which is better, but then if everyone was made the same way the price of clingfilm would skyrocket and everyone would be jostling for position next to Roy and much impoliteness and economic disruption would ensue, so perhaps some cosmic balance is involved.
Also. Briefly I consider putting one of Roy’s records on but decide that this may give too big a hint to the contents of the parcel. Instead I put on the fine old party tune “Pop Goes the Weasel.”
The game commences and the parcel containing the horizontal Roy is passed around the circle. There is some comment as to the heaviness and speculation that the prize must be large.
“Either that or there are many, many layers to unwrap,” says Yul Brynner excitedly. Courteously Jetta is included in the game but Mitzi passes and unwraps on her behalf as terrapin paws are not adapted to this purpose. Thus in effect Mitzi gets two chances to unwrap in every turn. I can tell this displeases Yul but he is too big a man to forbid it.
I stop the music for the first turn and it is Yul to unwrap. This pleases him greatly.
“Yes!” he cries. “It is me to unwrap! Eat your liver, Morrison,” for Jim Morrison has only just passed him the parcel after holding onto it for as long as possible.
In truth I arrange things so that Yul gets to unwrap almost every other turn, for he looks forward to it keenly and when the parcel misses him he scowls and I fear that if he is disappointed he will throw a tantrum and the success of the party will be jeopardized.
However, it is Mitzi, unwrapping on behalf of Jetta, who makes the first significant discovery.
“Also,” she says as she removes the next piece of clingfilm and tosses it carelessly aside, “a pair of shoes have been revealed.” As Roy’s shoes were the last to be wrapped it is unavoidable that they should be revealed first.
Ulrich Haarbürste's Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm Page 6