No Variations (Argentinian Literature Series)

by Luis Chitarroni, Darren Koolman

  Bertram Fortescue’s closing words were:

  —Like Numa Pompilius, one presides over this society with the assistance of a muse. Latinisms aside, she will never attend these meetings unless some great calamity befalls one, in which case, she will take one’s place …

  Afterwards, Bertram Fortescue Wynthrope-Smyth gave us a leaflet from which I learned how to spell his name [correctly].

  Three days later, a letter arrived. It was addressed only to me. Offended by the apparent snub, Tony resolved never again to mention anything to do with D. H. Lawrence or even the ridiculous name of that emperor of chimney sweeps.

  I took a train to St. Pancras, and from there, grabbed a taxi to Durward Street. I was beginning to get the impression I was in a film: the changing scenery, the developing plot, the cinematic sequences—particularly on my journey through the city—it all seemed so contrived, I felt I was in a movie theater watching myself, waiting to see what would happen next. In the taxi, I passed by some posters of Kate Bush peeling off the buildings, advertising yet another comeback. How sensitive we are to every second of our aging. The London I saw will already be old by the time this is read. The taxi dropped me off in front of an enormous warehouse. I rang the bell and the door was answered by Mrs. Prothero.

  The house was done up to appear as homey as possible, although it wasn’t very clean, and the wallpaper told only of the proprietor’s dubious taste (apologies, Chesterton), a typically English, middle class residence, with a steep staircase and hallway decorated with watercolors depicting uncertain scenes from an English countryside that exists only in folklore.

  I was told to wait for my contact in a room with two facing chairs of very different design, a small table, and a china cabinet adorned with trophies, badges, a diploma, and some statuettes of canines. Out of the jumbled mess on the table, there protruded a book about children’s art by an author whose face—which appeared on the cover—looked as if it was once used as an ashtray. The small bookshelf in the corner contained nothing of interest—tourist guides, cookbooks, the Gayelord Hauser diet—except for two Penguin publications [from the Tschichold or Schmoller period] of Anthony Powell books that were written before his A Dance to the Music of Time cycle—the one with an illustration by Osbert Lancaster—both delights for any collector, especially one as obsessive as myself, who was tempted to steal them [+who stole them, afterwards]. In the other corner (the one to my left, from where I was seated), there were stacks of old records. I walked over to have a closer look [at the covers]: Vera Lynn, Matt Monro, Engelbert Humperdinck, Helen Shapiro, Patsy Cline … Then I suddenly heard a noise and [swiftly] returned to the seat Mrs. Prothero had assigned me—a rustic armchair that was facing the second staircase.

  From there, I saw a pair of shoes descending, the tips of which were parted to look like hoofs (I believe I saw them advertised in a shop window on the King’s Road), then a pair of magnificent legs [atavistic, oriental], then a body sheathed in a leotard, which was either brown with yellow ocellations or yellow with brown ocellations—either way, alluring, either way, entrapping, consuming—a pattern to excite the male libido, the ashes of which are trampled underfoot (or hoof). She really kept me waiting. I was already five minutes late on arriving.

  I scanned her from head to foot (or hoof) and judged her well-endowed, despite her very angular features and aloof expression being under a thick layer of what looked to me like makeup removal cream. Two tightly braided blond pigtails fell across her naked, pallid shoulders. She had a distant though penetrating look, as if she were pointing a sword at a louring horizon. And her eyes seemed to communicate [directly] to my gut which forwarded the message to my brain.

  —You seem a lot younger than the person Hugo described, and much less handsome. There, there, don’t be discouraged. I’m Bambi—she said, leaning over to kiss my cheek.

  Then she slid into the large, medieval chair opposite mine and crossed her legs tightly, which made a loud, near-comic, and abrasive sound—which called to my mind Rita Renoir and Benny Hill. Then she took up a scone and began gnawing at it like a mouse with those perfectly formed, lipstick stained incisors. (Was there an urticant substance in that red lipstick? My left cheek was burning.)

  —Our mission is simple—said Bambi—as you will soon discover. You mustn’t tell Hugo I told you. But everyone’s supposed to think you are the one who bought the horse and that I am your wife; that you are a Spanish gentleman—Mr. Rico—established in London, and that the horse is for your—our—daughter.

  I said I knew nothing, not even who this Hugo was.

  —Fortunately, he’s not aware of this, she said. For a Spaniard, your English isn’t bad, Mr. Rico …

  I said I intended to improve it. But from the start, Bambi acted as judge of my every word and gesture. And although my opinion of her was to change completely [my presumptions about her were to change] in the course of our evening’s adventures, only now do I know (having not been fully aware of it then) that everything I said and did from the beginning onwards was said and done only to please her.

  —We have to wait for Hope, who’ll be here soon. She’s going to take us where we need to go. But don’t worry, there’s still plenty of time to spare. You don’t mind waiting while I finish getting ready?

  She took three or four steps towards the china cabinet, chose a small bottle, unscrewed the top, and extracted a small brush. Then she took three or four steps backwards, like a funambulist, watching her balance in her hoof-like shoes.

  —You will be amazing, Mr….

  I said my surname.

  —Don’t worry about that. Just keep calling yourself “Mr. Rico” so we don’t get confused before the adversary.

  I said that, for convenience, she should call me by my first name (which I repeated). And that there’s no need for the “Mr.”

  —You must be patient with me. I’m not good with names. Now regarding St. Mawr, it may seem like an incredibly strange society to you. And since you’re ignorant of so many things, I presume you don’t know that it’s a totally non-profit, extremely permissive, heterodox society, and that although they meet in secret, the reasons they meet aren’t exactly simple: you see they love keeping secrets, Mr. Rico, and I’m not exactly the most tight-lipped of people. Quite the contrary, in fact: I’m the kind of person who likes to share them, to spread them far and wide … As a result, Mr. Rico, I attract a lot of attention, you know? So remember, the Society of St. Mawr is a permissive, heterodox, non-profit organization. I couldn’t be a member if this wasn’t the case.

  There was a picture on the wall that was directly in [purposely put within] my line of sight: it depicted a little man standing with a crumpled figure resembling a dragon at his feet, looking out towards a kingdom on flames. Fleeing in the opposite direction, as if to avoid his gaze, as if to disdain his courageous triumph, was the aery silhouette of a fairy or princess. Behind her, a winged chariot—like in Marvell’s poem—seemed to be sweeping away her footprints as she fled, while a young child, a cherub, looked on in amazement.

  I asked her about the risks.

  —No risks, Mr. Rico. I promise. Hugo would warn us if there was any danger. We’ve been devilishly secretive, and moreover, deliciously perverse.

  I asked her if she meant to say “perceptive.”

  —I said perverse, Mr. Rico, and that’s what I meant. But at least you’re listening to what I’m saying.

  She carefully passed the brush over the nail of her left ring finger. Then I feared she’d suggest we go to her room—for whatever reason, not necessarily sexual—where I’d have my suspicion confirmed that it was still kept as it was when she was a teenager, as if she—a grown woman—were reluctant to let go of her adolescent angst, her maudlin existential search for a self: something depicted all too often in contemporary cinema and literature, and symptomatic of a soulless age.

  To break the silence and allay my fears, I sought sanctuary in a casual question: did she know any other Spanish
people?

  —Of course I do, many; and Latin Americans too. They are, as Hugo says, “my specialty.” I know quite a few words in Spanish, or en castellano—she mispronounced (which the italics should indicate without the need of a footnote)—but I couldn’t give an entire speech in the language, your language. You’d have to help me with that. I know “medianoche” and “destino” and “corazón” and “certeza.” And, let me see, I also know “la hostia,” “carajo,” “matador,” “después” … and the phrase “apaga y vamanos.” O yes, and “color quebrado, color quieto” … and let’s see, what else … did I say “después”? … And, by the way, I also know Triste’s parents’ names.

  —It’s a pity my friend isn’t here. He’s an Argentine linguist, and he hates Spanish almost as much as you do …

  —Ah, Argentines. After the Falklands War—the Maldives War, I mean—someone suggested I should “make friends with an Argentine.” And so I did. I even moved in with him. And we often visited the Tate Gallery and the British Museum. He knew everything about Turner and Constable, you know: in fact, he was one of those people who seem to know everything. Which reminds me of a compatriot of yours, Mr. Rico, from Barcelona: he was my best friend when I was living in Banyalbufar. He’s an architect and wanted …

  I interrupted her to say I was from Valencia not Barcelona.

  Then Mrs. Prothero entered to announce that Hope had arrived.

  —Don’t worry about it, Hester: Hope’s always a little early. If she were ever on time, she wouldn’t be Hope.

  And once Mrs. Prothero withdrew, Bambi continued addressing me as if she—Hester Prothero—was now overhearing our conversation:

  —If she didn’t trust me, Mr. Rico, if she didn’t take words at face value, you and I wouldn’t be enjoying this intimate exchange in such a nice house. Well, it was nice until you arrived. Come, sit on my lap.

  I already said that my desire was to please Bambi. I didn’t need any prompting. But when she slapped her thigh so hard it emitted a sound that made me start, I was ready to obey her every whim. Suddenly, I saw a mass of fur move towards her, and leap onto her lap. An eerie creature, it looked like something from another planet.

  —Falina’s been my companion for years, Mr. Rico. I’ve never been able to manage without a companion, or a mascot, if you will. Falina’s an award-winning Cornish Rex, you know, and she’s very well-trained. Before her, I owned a little pug—since I like both cats and dogs—and before that, a Frost Point Siamese called Procol Harum.

  So the trophies, medals, and rosettes all belonged to her pets. Animals: creatures of that other kingdom. I was so caught up with everything she said, it was like I was of sense and feeling dispossessed.

  —Mr. Rico, where in your country … let me say it right, where in your país—she mispronounced—are you from again?

  Once again I said Valencia.

  Then Bambi spent some moments talking to Falina as if she were addressing me. She seemed to ask questions about bullfighting or something, but I got the [distinct] impression she was interrogating me. So we spent these last awkward moments together—she talking to the cat, blowing her fingernails, me sitting nervously, gnawing mine—until (thank goodness) after putting on her raincoat, we finally left the house and climbed into Hope’s car.

  During our journey in Hope’s Daimler, the two women engaged in one of those dull conversations that invariably (and perhaps purposely) bores the passive interlocutor to tears: so I sat through the journey, quietly, reflecting on the events of the day so far, wondering what else would transpire on “that adventure.”

  —If you get bored in London, Hope can show you around, take you places further afield than the museums. She knows the city like the back of her hand. She could take you to Mornington Crescent, for example, where Sickert and Auerbach lived.

  —It’s actually my sister, Honor, who’s the art aficionado—said Hope—. Honor among thieves. But she hasn’t the least scruple about admiring foreign artists. I mean, look at Sickert and Auerbach: they’re both German, for goodness sake.

  Soon, we were in the outskirts of the city, or as far as the suburbs, where we finally saw some green—the color of insularity, of self-sufficiency, but not truly green or truly insular as that autonomous isle of Erin. What was it my Argentine friend used to say? The truth is never too green for a corruption. Hope drove at medium velocity over a hill and then accelerated. I guessed we were approaching our destination. Moments later, Bambi proved me correct by pointing to a cottage in the distance and saying that that’s where we were headed. I asked her if she’d been there before, and she responded by grabbing both shoulders and shuddering. Whether it was to her advantage or no, the woman was pure instinct.

  The cottage, which was painted all white, was partially obscured by a tall fence, a hedgerow, and some trees. Hope parked her car. Bambi and I got out, passed under the arched gateway, crossed the pathway flanked by roses, and rang the bell of the front door. Two men and two dogs answered.

  One of the men was short and fat, a ringer for Bob Hoskins; the other—well, he was the opposite. Both dogs seemed to have been following the first man’s diet. We approached and Bambi said, unhesitating:

  —You must be Careclough, and you James.

  —The reverse actually—said the Bob Hoskins lookalike, whom she mistook for Careclough. On entering, I saw it was a large country house with—I discovered after a quick peek—a sumptuous kitchen.

  We spent quite a while with the horse. James refused to stop brushing him until his coat was lustrous. The future father of St. Mawr was a large but tired-looking stallion. It was very dark, almost black but not quite: the Spanish have a name for the color but it escapes me. Burnt or charred. I should probably ask my friend, Odriozola. There was nothing to predict how powerful the son would be, except there was a distinct advantage of his being born in Wales, apparently—in Cardiff specifically—even though his father was sired on a farm in Maesteg.

  —To be honest—said James—it’s my first time looking after a horse of this caliber without the proper facilities. In fact, I used to breed horses in Clydesdale and Suffolk. —Then, as if he couldn’t perceive an arc connecting his proven past with an untested future, he added—: So Careclough will take on most of the responsibility.

  Careclough had been born in the Orkney Islands—a small archipelago in north Scotland—not far from Balfour Castle.

  —Just like Eric Linklater and Angus Swain—he suddenly vaunted.

  —Tomorrow, Hope and James will come and collect him—said Bambi.

  —His name’s Triste—said James.

  —What a silly name, like that ugly city in northern Italy.

  —No, “triste.” It’s Spanish for sad.

  —Whatever—said Bambi—neither makes much sense.

  —Triste. Sad. Blue. In Spanish it sounds nice: Don Quixote, el caballero de la triste figura. I don’t know how Smollett translated it.

  —exaggerating, as always: The Chevalier of the sorrowful countenance—said Hope.

  But no one was paying attention.

  The place to which we then headed was (I later learned) formerly a pub called The Eagle & the Lad, which had been renamed Bird & Child (in fact, the neon sign over the entrance read Hinterland). When we arrived, the event had already begun. So, with her shoes in hand, Bambi scurried to her dressing room.

  Cornelius Sacrapant was speaking, affecting (or seeming to affect) a foreign accent: a bald man, jovial—a mix of Elmer Gruñon and Pepe Grillo in appearance. He seemed to be telling jokes, switching between two voices, one of them addressing a person called Wallace. It was only when I saw the redheaded puppet propped on his knee, that I deduced he was a ventriloquist. Wallace seemed to twist everything his master said into a joke. His voice was certainly the strangest I’ve heard from a creature of his kind—at once surd and resonant, clipped and lyrical, with euphonious vowels broken by brusquely stressed consonants that reminded me a little of Careclough’s Scottish brogue.
As for the ventriloquist, it turned out he was also a magician. Whenever he did a trick, he’d utter a catchphrase—“I can’t do it any slower”—before once again drawing a bird or rabbit from his hat, or running himself through with a rapier and turning in profile to show us the pointed end—covered in red paint—emerging from between his shoulder blades.

  —One of the many superstitions of my land is to make sure and salute the priest twice each morning (so he doesn’t come blessing us in the afternoon); another is to only practice on our carpets in the small airfield that’s located just outside the city. For the route laid out for the flying of carpets out of Baghdad [Hagrabah. Spell], as recorded in Burton’s translation of Alf Laila Wa-Laila, is dangerous and restricted. Now I admit Wallace and I have never needed magic carpets to fly. Especially Wallace.

  Then he flung the puppet in the air. But he did it so crudely, the erstwhile invisible wires that allowed the puppet to walk alongside him on the stage, could clearly be seen by the audience (which, in the dark, looked a sparse congregation of pearl buttons and dentures), and resenting the spell being broken so abruptly, they all began to boo. Cornelius Sacrapant reacted as if he’d intended the effect—standing center stage, proud and erect, grinning smugly, waving his hat, and bowing to receive the occasional projectile on his bald pate. Once the puppet was back in his hands, he made it say goodbye with a sober wave. Then, not knowing what to do next, the magician’s proud veneer began to dissolve, as he remained rooted in the middle of the stage, raising a nervous hand to fix what remained of his hair, and stepping from side to side. As the booing continued, he set the puppet on the ground and manipulated its strings so it pedaled its feet, performing the action of climbing a falling ladder. No one was amused. Nevertheless, thirty seconds later—I counted the seconds because I was bored—Cornelius Sacrapant had gotten rid of his nerves and remained on the stage, suspended five feet above the heads of the audience, and although they continued jeering, he dismissed their jeers with one of those ambiguous gestures characteristic of Henrietta Bonham-Carter, and cheerily finished his routine.