“Boy your fucking mother knows exactly the time for you to make yourself an adaptable human being.”
“And what does that mean.”
“Forget it honey, forget it. Jesus the fucking bulb’s gone out for the bathroom.”
Schultz standing on a chair lugged in from the hallway. Pricilla holding up a new bulb. And her other hand gripping the chair back as Schultz reached to extract by twists, turns and tugs the old bulb from its socket.
“Jesus this fucking thing won’t move. God damn it.”
“Be careful Sigmund, the chair. O my god the leg is breaking.”
Schultz in his sudden downward descent two handed grabbed the light shade as a parachute. His fingers tearing through the blue parchment and eagerly anchoring around the wire frame. A rip and a crack of ceiling plaster. A flash of electricity and smell of burning as Schultz fell bringing an ersatz Georgian ceiling medallion down fragmenting on his head. As the whole house fused into darkness.
“Fucking bloody cunt. This fucking bloody house and all its god damn phony two bit furniture.”
“O darling are you hurt.”
“No just my fucking toes maimed again. Now how am I going to find the god damn fuse box when I don’t even know where the lousy thing is.”
“Anger will get you nowhere darling.”
“Like fuck it won’t boy. I’ll kick the shit out of this house. Till I find it. As if enough didn’t happen to me today.”
Schultz undressed by candlelight. And sipped a glass of champagne, sucking back the delicately oily grey teardrops of caviar. Lying back in the bath covered to the chin in foam. Big Ben tolling eight bells. Pricilla leaning over the porcelain edge on her elbows staring at him in adoration. And in the flickering yellow glow she helped dry.
“My Sigmund you do have such a big prick and balls.”
“That’s right honey. Inherited from my grandfather.”
“Do you like me to do this to you.”
“It’s swell honey, it’s swell.”
“Well I’m going to stop because I want to save it all for when we get to bed.”
“Hey honey, do we have to have this big occasion exactly tonight. I’m kind of really knocked out from the day’s events.”
“You’re standing there with an enormous erection.”
“I know I am honey, I know it.”
“Well you’re not that tired out then.”
“No you got a point there honey.”
“It’s you who has the point. And it’s such a nice big handsome one. And I want you to put it in me.”
“Sure honey, sure.”
“I really mean that, Sigmund.”
“Sure I know you do honey. Don’t get upset. It was only that I think we should wait for a real special moment that’s all.”
“Haven’t you been screaming at me. And yelling that you want satisfaction and a normal sex life. Well that’s what I’m fucking well going to give you, when you fuck me tonight.”
“Hey christ, the language honey. Watch it. What’s got into you.”
“Nothing. But tonight, you are.”
O.K.
I’m convinced
O.K.
7
It was one minute past Tuesday. Big Ben booming midnight echoing over Belgravia. A rising easterly wind and rain slamming at the windows. When Schultz felt he was dying in an explosion. Pricilla on her back wide eyed, thought Schultz screaming so loud was having a combined heart attack, convulsion and brainstorm. When all he was having was an orgasm.
Pricilla lay like some embalmed queen not particularly of Sheba but not far from there either. Schultz wondering when the Oriental Venereal Plague and its vesicular chancres would erupt. As it did in a dream pushing one’s own wheelbarrow full of one’s gargantuanly swollen testicles towards Pricilla’s two ton mother waiting in an abattoir with a sledgehammer upraised. But on the softened linen sheets finally waking feeling unexpectedly good. Coffee brought by Pricilla with the newspaper. Bedroom bathed in sunshine. Black eye fading fast on one’s face.
“Darling you had a nightmare. You were shouting don’t break them.”
“O yeah someone was carrying a big box of eggs.”
That mid morning the Ambassador’s Secretary telephoned. Asking if Mr. Schultz and his good friend the dark haired lady could come for a small black tie festivity the following night.
“Who is that foreign voice Sigmund.”
“O just His Excellency across the street, just likes to know that the house isn’t being robbed.”
“I heard you say no that you couldn’t.”
“Hey what is it baby you got to hang your head over the bannister listening with your nose in my business.”
“I want to know why you had to say no you couldn’t that’s all.”
“Because I’m fucking too busy that’s why. He wanted me to go to dinner.”
“O that would be nice.”
Schultz on his way out the hall to Sperm Productions phoned the Ambassador to accept. And sunshine beaming down warming one’s back, detouring along by the big black numerals on the grey stone houses shaping the sweeping curve of the crescent. To pop into the church at Wilton Place. Pray to Almighty god. That I do not have the venereal plague. With handfuls of my pubic hair falling out my trouser leg.
Schultz doubling back around the other side of the crescent and its stately town houses. Turning up Grosvenor Crescent past the offices of the Red Cross whose tireless members rush aid all over the world to the diseased and distressed. Might even have a cure for me. If only I had the nerve to present myself clapped up inside their polished doors.
Up in the elms and cotton ball trees of Green Park, birds chirping merrily. Schultz cutting through the narrow brick alley and dark tunnel passage and turning down past this hotel and left into sunny splendors of Westminster, St. James’s. The noonday gleaming motor chariots steaming up this boulevard of gentleman’s clubs. Chaps popping in and out of hat, shoe, shirt and gun makers. The bowlers tipping, the brollys tapping. The town of London indubitably awake. And Schultz, still breathing heavily after a climb up the stairs with the lift out of action, was about to open his mail when confronted at his cubbyhole door by Rebecca.
“Sir, sorry to disturb you but the Metropolitan Police are on Lord Nectarine’s private line for you in his office.”
Schultz ashen faced rising behind his desk. Bowels loosening, guts churning. Holy fucking christ almighty, I’ve got the Oriental Venereal Plague. Jesus. This should happen to me so fucking young. After even praying to god in church. Before I even had a chance to have a hit. Pricilla’s mother is now going to be chasing me with an axe. To chop my prick off. And fry it with her sausages.
Schultz entering his Lordship’s gloomy office along the passage. His trembling hand nearly dropping the phone as he picked it up. Rebecca discreetly retreating closing the door.
“Hello.”
“Is this Mr. Sigmund Schultz.”
“Speaking.”
“This is Bow Street Police Station. We have a gentleman here sir, who says you are his guardian.”
“Who’s that.”
“His name given us is Terence F. X. Magillacurdy.”
“Yeah that’s right. What’s wrong.”
“Well he resisted arrest yesterday evening and was bound over to keep the peace which he was disturbing while being apprehended for trespass and contravening certain bylaws in Brompton Cemetery.”
On the pavement outside the Magistrate’s Court suitably situated across the street from the Royal Opera House, Schultz discovered instantly, that the mere sight of the massive mischievously grinning face of Magillacurdy frightened people in all walks of life. Including himself. As the Irish gentleman in his ripped thick blue sweater, his flame bright hair and torn green corduroy trousers, stood open armed gaily greeting the passing young ladies.
“Ah me boyo now. Sure I had one bobby by the scruff of the neck and another by the tunic. And another on the end of me boot. Tr
ying to knock culture into them. Can you imagine. The lack of respect for a Mozart aria I was right in the middle of rendering. With every bit of me artistry fully stretched with the fiendish difficulties that that composer Wolfgang Mozart presents to the innocent singer.”
“Who’s your Agent Mr. Magillacurdy.”
“Agent. What are you talking about. And call me Patrick me boyo. I’ve scrapped me other Christian names. And I’m not to be bartered brokered or sold by any man. I’m me own Agent. And I’d be glad at this very delicate moment to negotiate with you as an advance on my ten per cent, a pint or two of stout in that pub needing patronage standing innocently there on the corner.”
Schultz elbowing a way through to the bar in the crowded lunch time pub. Jammed with flower vegetable and fruit merchants. Magillacurdy perched massively on a bar stool. As he downed four pints of draught Guinness in a row without blinking. Pausing only to devour with one bite each, six ham rolls, four scotch eggs and five sausages.
“I abandoned reading writing and arithmetic at the age of five. Took up singing acting and dancing. And now it’s me life me boyo. I’m fit for nothing else save carnal criminality. No drama school would even have me. They’d take one look at me as I stepped up to give my audition. And said to my face that if I sang anymore or danced another step they’d be compelled to summon the police. That’s nearly been the nature of my theatrical career right down to this very moment of washing this sausage down my throat.”
“What have you done in the way of stage work.”
“Done. What have I done. I’ll tell you what I’ve done. I’ve loosened many a rafter and floor board raising the great ghosts of me mummer predecessors in any theatre or building that would stand up under the strain. And you will not hear or see the like of me again.”
“I believe you.”
“Ah with sufficient wool pulled over your eyes, you’re already hopelessly prejudiced in my favour I can see that. And we’ll drink to it.”
“Hey tell me something, Patrick.”
“Certainly what is it me boyo now that you’d want to know.”
“What are you doing sleeping in a cemetery.”
“Ah I knew you’d be too intelligent a man not to ask me that sooner or later. Sure it’s nothing more than me temperamental impatient creditors. They have no consideration of any kind. It’s been the only safe place I’ve been able to get a decent night’s sleep. And I have a grand little mausoleum nearly to meself. The other chap who is in there using it, is the quietest sleeper you’d ever meet this side of heaven.”
“There are two of you in there.”
“Ah god it’s good to be in the company of a man as fierce intelligent as yourself. That’s correct. In a manner of speaking. There are two of us. And the other fellow I presume owns our little house, built in the Grecian style and he doesn’t pass many remarks. Not since I would think August fourteenth nineteen thirteen when he was laid to rest. A baronet no less. And I don’t mind telling you it’s a relief to stretch out next to a bit of elegance and not to have to doss down next to the flotsam and jetsam of London society as I’ve had upon recent occasion to do.”
Schultz wasted no time in begging his Lordship to send his faithful chauffeur Hubert to the pub. Now nearly closing time at three o’clock. To ferry them in suitable style back to Belgravia.
“Ah my dear Schultz, of course you can have my motor. So good to hear from you my dear and I trust your balls have not dropped off yet.”
“Holy shit don’t remind me. But let me tell you everybody in this business is soon going to be in for a big fucking surprise.”
“Ah do I take that to mean Schultz that finally your pubic hair has fallen completely out.”
“Your Lordship if I didn’t at this second desperately need this favour you’re doing me I’d tell you to go fuck yourself.”
“And I should dearly love to be able to Schultz, as it would save me squandering so much money on reluctant ladies.”
As the car arrived purring up to the curb, Magillacurdy bathed in a beam of afternoon sunshine, was on the pavement rendering the soliloquy from Hamlet. With his tree trunk legs astride, several fly buttons undone, bottles of stout stuck in his pockets, arms outstretched, and head jutting forward. Gathering a traffic stopping crowd who were as the last words trembled from Magillacurdy’s lips, clapping and cheering in their tracks. Magillacurdy announcing as he bowed and entered the long gleaming limousine.
“Come and see me on opening night, all of you marvellously charming people. Sure it’s only here in the fruit market where you can still find decent cultured citizens in abundance.”
Schultz with his sunglasses on as Magillacurdy ensconced back in the soft upholstery, his coal miner’s boots with their steel studs propped up on the jump seat and pulling off his sweater and turning it inside out.
“Ah it’s pleasantly obvious you’re a successful producer me boyo and a vehicle like this calls for me best boot forward and in this case it’s a matter of me soup stains being put towards me skin instead of out to the world.”
The limousine slowly threading the crowded market of parked and manoeuvring lorries laden with the shiny light brown skins of onions, the fluffy white of cauliflowers, flame colored carrots, pale emerald cabbages and deep red peppers, all fresh in from the countryside.
“Ah me boyo here I am recently starving and look at this, enough to feed ten million.”
The limousine purring through the sweet smell of oranges, lemons and purple plums, crated and stacked. Porters rumbling by with heaped up carts. Others gathered with hands holding their white cups of tea. The brass plates on doorways of publishers, literary agents and tailors along Henrietta Street. Magillacurdy royally waving and grinning murmuring his acknowledgments to inquisive looks from the passing people.
“Ah to fuck you. And you too. Yes and even you madam. Would be such sweet paradise.”
The motor chariot picking up speed along the Strand. Its theatres, hotels, shops and eating houses. Magillacurdy touching a switch to electrically lower his window. And leaning forward out of his seat, to stick his head and shoulders out into the breeze and shout as the car passed through the throngs going to and from the main line station of Charing Cross.
“Help, help. I’m being kidnapped. Help.”
“Holy shit Patrick. Jesus. We’re going to get arrested again.”
“You and the chauffeur are going to be arrested, not me. I’m being abducted.”
Folk stopping to stare at the passing glistening vehicle. Hubert wide eyed turning to see what on earth was happening the other side of the glass division in the back of his limousine until he had to slam on his brakes as he smashed luckily lightly into the big red bus in front.
“Ah sure that put you on tenterhooks didn’t it now. Every bobby for miles will have his truncheon at the ready for us.”
Magillacurdy taking a bottle of stout out of his pocket and ripping the cap off with his teeth. Schultz wiping the perspiration from his brow as they finally drove through Admiralty Arch and sped along the Mall under the plane trees straight at Buckingham Palace.
“Ah now me boyo till you met me you had yourself a nice little life, hadn’t you. And I don’t mind saying I’m glad we’ve met as recently as we did. Sure one minute I’m in a cemetery, the next in prison and the next, without a farthing in me pocket and me belly full, sure I’m heading down the Mall sumptuous as you please on a set of velvet wheels. Should we, do you think, pop out now into the palace and give Her Majesty a thrill. Ah sure, with good reason you believe everything I say and I’m frightening you to death there in the corner, I can see that.”
At the door of number four on Schultz’s town house stoop stood waiting the Director, the Author, the Choreographer, and the husband and wife composing team, all summoned down from the Dorchester. Schultz and Magillacurdy alighting from the limousine just as the Debutant with her script couched in her arm stepped out of a taxi. Schultz, dropping pound notes out of his wallet as he w
ent rushing over to pay for her fare. As Magillacurdy behind picked them up and came looming in over the Debutant’s blond shoulder.
“Ah me darling let me greet you.”
Magillacurdy sweeping the Debutant off her feet, hugging and kissing her in his arms. And carrying her bodily all the way up into Schultz’s front hall where in her neat slightly rumpled grey flannel suit, she was deposited arse first with a thump on the floor. But before she could shed tears Magillacurdy had her up once more on her feet hugging her.
“Ah now my lovely darling pardon me violence but I always like to see if me leading ladies will bounce. That way I can always tell how far I can safely drop them. O.K. where’s the script me boyo. Just give me a look at it so’s to see it isn’t an awful bunch of appalling rubbish and if it is, why don’t despair and fuck the author out the door on the end of a boot, for I just so happen to have me trusty pencil here in me pocket to brush it up a bit. A few little phrases and poetic flourishes here and there and I can put quality and beauty into even the most diabolical piece of trash.”
Schultz introducing the newly discovered stars to the Director, Author, Choreographer and Composers. Grimaces creeping over their smiles as Magillacurdy’s massive fist painfully compressed all the knuckles offered him. Especially the leather coated Director’s with his pink cravat and golf safety pin at the neck of his bright blue shirt. With Magillacurdy’s massive miner’s boots immediately stepping on the toes of this thin gentleman’s silver buckled shiny patent leather slippers.
“Ah now, it’s you who is to direct us in this is it. And I suppose you think you’re the cat’s whiskers.”
“Not exactly.”
“Not exactly is it. Then maybe you think you’re able to fart out your arse every masterly word Shakespeare wrote. And are god’s gift to the theatre. And that poor ignorant actors like meself will be dying to be told what to do by the nearly bald likes of you. Ah but I can see fear in your eyes. And I can read your mind. That what on earth am I going to do with this monster. Well I’ll relieve you of your anxiety. And tell you right here and now that I’m a fair man. And before I hammer the daylights out of you and your pretensions, I will give you a chance to prove yourself. Sure let’s get on with the script now.”
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