Her Name Was Lola

by Russell Hoban

  16

  Doing Their Ching

  February 1997. Still that Sunday. Making their way out of the park through dusk and lamplight, Max and Lola are confronted by a very tall, very broad figure. ‘Madam,’ says the figure to Lola, ‘is this man molesting you?’

  ‘Basil!’ says Lola.

  ‘For it is indeed he,’ says Basil, kissing Lola on both cheeks, mwah, mwah.

  ‘Bit of a startler,’ says Max.

  ‘Joke, old man,’ says Basil, extending a large right hand. ‘Basil Meissen-Potts.’

  ‘Ha ha,’ says Max as his metacarpal bones splinter. ‘Max Lesser.’

  ‘Any relation to Solomon Lesser?’

  ‘No. Who’s he?’

  ‘A pawnbroker who brought an action against Lady Glister a couple of years ago. She’d left a diamond necklace worth half a million with him at a time when she was a bit short of the readies. A year later when she redeemed it and had it reappraised for insurance she was told that the stones were paste. They’d been diamonds when she left the necklace with Lesser so she went back to have a word with him. In the course of the conversation she beaned him with – what do you call those seven-branched candlesticks?’

  ‘Candelabra?’ says Max.

  ‘Menorahs,’ says Basil. ‘She hit him with a brass menorah that was standing on the counter and fractured his skull. So he sued her and I had to defend her.’

  ‘Who won?’ says Max.

  ‘We did. Lesser had to pay the full value of the diamonds plus what she’d given him to redeem the necklace plus court costs and damages for Lady Glister’s post-traumatic stress.’

  ‘You can’t trust a Solomon,’ says Max.

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ says Basil. ‘Some of my best friends are Solomons.’

  ‘Thank you for sharing that with us,’ says Lola to Basil. ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘Claridge’s. Bachelor party for Bill Twimbley-Sturt. Mwah, mwah. See you.’ (This second mwah, mwah was unnecessary, thinks Max.) ‘Nice meeting you, Max.’

  ‘Same here,’ says Max. ‘I don’t meet too many Meissen-Pottses.’

  ‘We’re an ethnic minority now,’ says Basil. ‘Take care.’

  ‘Mind how you go,’ says Max. As Basil recedes into the evening he says to Lola, ‘I seem to remember your saying that he’s a part of a kind of life you’re accustomed to.’

  ‘Have you got a copy of The I Ching?’ says Lola.

  ‘Sure. How come?’

  ‘Because I want to do it. Let’s go to your place.’

  ‘OK,’ says Max. ‘I suppose we’ll have to break the squalor barrier some time.’ As they head for the Brompton Road, Lola pressing against his arm, Max has the feeling that she’s afraid she’ll be swept away by a wave of reality. Past Harrods, all picked out in lights like a vertical landing strip for low-flying shoppers, past Michelin House and the shops and lights in the Fulham Road as the shining rednesses of the 14 buses come and go, all the way home he feels around him the play of yes and no. When he opens his front door he notices how stale the air inside is. Now they’re standing in his workroom which looks like something between a shipwreck and a bomb site. Bulging ranks of books look down from the shelves and totter in stacks on the floor along with dangerous heaps and sprawls of videotapes. Max’s computer sits on a trestle table in a welter of paper and CDs. Discarded pages litter the floor under his chair.

  ‘This works for you, does it?’ says Lola.

  ‘Oh yes. I don’t know where everything is but I know where a lot of things are.’ Max switches on lamps that contrive a pleasing balance of light and shadow on the clutter. He empties two armchairs, clears a little space on the floor, and gets The I Ching off the shelf. He opens a bottle of Jacob’s Creek red and pours two glasses. ‘Here’s looking at you, Lola,’ he says.

  ‘Here’s me looking right back,’ says Lola. Clink.

  Max takes three George V pennies from their pocket inside the back cover of the book. ‘I haven’t done this since I was thirty,’ he says.

  ‘Haven’t you had any doubts since then?’ says Lola.

  ‘Lots,’ says Max, ‘but I don’t seem to crave as much clarity as I used to.’

  ‘This is going to be for both of us,’ says Lola, ‘so we’ll each throw the coins three times.’ She kneels on the floor, Max beside her. His throat aches with the poignancy of the lamplight on her cheek, on her hair. They throw the coins and get Hexagram 23, Po/ Splitting Apart: above, KEN – KEEPING STILL, MOUNTAIN, below, K’UN – THE RECEPTIVE, EARTH, with six in the beginning and six in second place. Lola and Max together skim the opening lines of the text, then Max reads aloud THE JUDGMENT:

  ‘SPLITTING APART. It does not further one

  To go anywhere.’

  ‘Great,’ says Max. ‘This book really knows how to hurt a guy.’

  ‘Here’s THE IMAGE,’ says Lola:

  ‘The mountain rests on the earth:

  The image of SPLITTING APART.

  Thus those above ensure their position

  Only by giving generously to those below.’

  ‘There you have it,’ says Max. ‘The only way to keep our heads is to get busy with our lower parts.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ says Lola as she peels off her jumper. ‘We can work out a fuller interpretation later.’

  17

  How It Was

  February 1997. Still that Sunday. They’d grabbed each other as if to save themselves from drowning. Now that it’s over they still cling, not wanting to let go. It’s been a strange first time. Hexagram 23 was scary and unexpected in that it stated baldly what they both felt to be happening. Most of the time a hexagram is not to be taken literally: a judgment in which the superior man does this or that on a mountain is not necessarily about a man or a mountain. The thrower of the coins has a wide margin for interpretation. The I Ching doesn’t tell you what’s going to happen, it offers material that can show you how you feel about what’s happening at the moment when you throw the coins. This physical act has in it your state of mind at that moment and evokes the book’s response.

  Still naked, Lola sits up with Max’s arm around her. ‘There were sixes in the beginning and in second place,’ she says. ‘That’s two old yins changing Hexagram 23 to Hexagram 41.’

  Max reaches for the book. ‘“Sun/Decrease,”’ he reads: ‘“above, KEN-KEEPING STILL, MOUNTAIN; below, TUI – THE JOYOUS, LAKE.”’

  ‘Ah!’ says Lola, THE JUDGMENT:

  ‘Decrease combined with sincerity

  Brings about supreme good fortune

  Without blame.

  One may be persevering in this.

  It furthers one to undertake something.

  How is this to be carried out?

  One may use two small bowls for the sacrifice.’

  ‘Our luck is changing for the better,’ says Max.

  ‘I like the text,’ says Lola:

  ‘Decrease does not under all circumstances mean something

  bad. Increase and decrease come in their own time.

  What matters here is to understand the time and not to

  try to cover up poverty with empty pretense.’

  ‘And so on. Good, eh?’

  ‘I promise to stop covering up my poverty,’ says Max, feeling irrationally that this line in the text might be a comment on the size of his member.

  ‘You know that’s not what it means,’ says Lola, following his gaze. ‘Here’s THE IMAGE’:

  ‘At the foot of the mountain, the lake:

  The image of DECREASE.

  Thus the superior man controls his anger

  And restrains his instincts.’

  She reads on:

  ‘The mountain stands as the symbol of a stubborn strength

  that can harden into anger. The lake is the symbol of

  unchecked gaiety that can develop into passionate drives

  at the expense of the life forces. Therefore decrease is

  necessary; anger must be dec
reased by keeping still, the

  instincts must be curbed by restriction. By this decrease

  of the lower powers of the psyche, the higher aspects of

  the soul are enriched.’

  ‘I wish my soul had better higher aspects,’ says Max.

  ‘I do too,’ says Lola, ‘but I guess we’ll have to make do with whatever aspects come to hand.’

  ‘You’re very gracious,’ says Max. ‘And for the rest of my life I’ll remember how you looked at me when you took off your jumper.’

  ‘I’m glad you appreciated that,’ says Lola. ‘I didn’t take it off lightly. And bear in mind that we’ve now been warned about unchecked gaiety and passionate drives.’

  ‘Right,’ says Max. ‘Will you stay here tonight?’

  ‘OK,’ says Lola. ‘But first I’ll have to check your gaiety.’

  ‘I think you’ll find it in good working order,’ says Max.

  18

  The Worst That Could Happen

  February 1997. ‘All this with two women is going to end in tears,’ says Max’s mind.

  ‘I know,’ says Max. ‘I’ll have to sort myself out. I’ve been wondering, if I were writing about a guy in this situation, what would be the worst that could happen?’

  ‘Well, he could lose his Lola, couldn’t he. What could be worse than that?’

  ‘Lola isn’t with him every moment,’ says Max. ‘Much of her presence, her belovedness, is in his memory. And out of his memory comes his anticipation of the next time with her. If Lola leaves him he can still remember her. But if he loses his memory he loses her completely. So that’s even worse. Maybe I could use that in a novel.’

  ‘There might be some mileage in it,’ says his mind.

  ‘In Hindu mythology,’ says Max, ‘there’s a dwarf demon of Forgetfulness called Apasmara Purusha. If this guy’s Lola gets really pissed off she might find a way of putting Apasmara on to him to wipe out the memory of her.’

  ‘That’s really nasty,’ says his mind. ‘I like it. But what would get her that pissed off? Would sleeping with another woman one time do it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ says Max. ‘It was just a passing thought. I doubt that I’ll do anything with it – I’m not sure I like this guy well enough to write about him.’

  19

  A Short Time With Basil

  February 1997. ‘What is it with you and Max Lesser?’ says Basil to Lola. They’re having lunch at The Cheshire Cheese in Fleet Street. Lots of newspaper people there, upholding pints and their reputation for alcohol consumption while analysing the latest scandals, sports, and political news. Cheerful noises all around.

  ‘Basil,’ says Lola, ‘I’ll try to put this as gently as I can.’

  ‘Put what?’ says Basil.

  ‘If,’ says Lola, ‘I were to ask my boyfriend to stand up, you’d have to remain seated.’

  ‘It’s like that, is it?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘This is a very sudden dismissal.’

  ‘Not really. You and I have not been an item for quite a long time. What we had was more of a lifestyle thing than a romance.’

  ‘And you’re serious about Lesser, are you?’

  ‘That’s nothing you need concern yourself with.’

  ‘I think it is. I’ll always care about what happens to you.’

  ‘That’s sweet of you but try not to care too much.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll be happy with him?’

  ‘Can we talk about something else? Have you had any interesting new cases?’

  ‘I think this Jewish-intellectual fling of yours is a delayed adolescent revolt,’ says Basil. ‘This guy is no one for you to give your heart to. Let alone other parts. There’ll come a time when you’ll wish you still had good old suitable Baz.’

  ‘When that happens,’ says Lola, ‘you’ll be the second to know.’

  ‘Have you read his books?’ says Basil.

  ‘I’ve read the most recent one.’

  ‘Any That You Can Not Put Downe came out almost four years ago,’ says Basil. ‘He seems to be having a dry spell.’

  ‘Three and a half years don’t make a dry spell.’

  ‘Have you read Ten Thousand Several Doors and Turn Down An Empty Glass?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You should. They’re long since out of print but I borrowed them from one of our clerks. Lesser always writes about the same thing: himself.’

  ‘Lots of writers do that,’ says Lola.

  ‘But they don’t all stick to a pattern the way Lesser does. In all three novels the protagonist betrays the woman who loves him and then she goes out of his life and he tries to win her back. In this last novel she’s topped herself and put a curse on him and he’s trying to get her ghost to lift the curse. I doubt that Ladbroke’s would give very good odds on Lesser in the Fidelity Stakes.’

  ‘You’ve really done your homework,’ says Lola, ‘but then you always do. It’s nice to see you so excited about something. I’m sure that one of these days you’ll find a woman who appreciates you.’

  ‘I think you’re going to be sorry about the choice you’re making.’

  ‘Maybe,’ says Lola. ‘But I won’t be bored.’

  20

  Girl Talk

  February 1997. While Lola and Basil are at The Cheshire Cheese Lula Mae is at The Garibaldi in High Holborn with Irma Lustig of Everest Technology Accounts. Like Lula Mae, Irma, originally from Stuttgart, is a head-turner of noble proportions. Herbert Wise, Personnel Manager at Everest, is known in the organisation as Herbie the Eye. He denies discrimination and claims that he rarely receives job applications from plain women.

  ‘Who was that man I saw you with?’ says Irma. ‘Shorter than you.’

  ‘The shorter ones try harder,’ says Lula Mae.

  ‘He looked tired.’

  ‘He doesn’t spare himself.’

  ‘Will you be seeing him again?’

  ‘Probably. I’ve never had a man who didn’t come back for more and it might be fun to be his muse for a while. He’s a writer.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Max Lesser.’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Neither had I but I don’t think he’s the kind of writer too many people hear of. There’s a sadness about him that appeals to me. When I met him he was with this upper-class girl who seemed a little too sure of herself.’

  ‘So you’re going to make her less sure?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Any future in this for you?’

  ‘I’m not thinking futures at the moment. He’s interesting and I’m interested. He’s more appreciative than the kind of men I’m used to and I like that.’

  ‘You should invest your time more wisely,’ says Irma. ‘One day men will stop sighing when you pass.’

  ‘That won’t be for a while yet,’ says Lula Mae.

  Irma lowers her eyes to her empty glass for a fraction of a second and a red-shirted waiter instantly appears with two more grappas. ‘Prosit,’ she says.

  ‘Likewise,’ says Lula Mae. ‘So how are things with you?’

  ‘I’m building a careful portfolio, very conservative,’ says Irma, ‘and I’m acquiring the odd property. I expect to be financially independent by the time I’m thirty-five.’

  ‘What about affairs of the heart?’

  ‘I get one or two offers every week to be somebody’s trophy wife and there are always plenty of men who want to get into my knickers but that isn’t where my heart is. The kind of men I might like to meet are usually afraid to approach me. I envy you your interesting Max, even if it comes to nothing.’

  ‘It’s a funny thing,’ says Lula Mae. ‘He’s not really my type but for years he’s been craving recognition from my kind of woman.’

  ‘What happens if you stop giving it to him?’

  ‘Who knows what the future holds?’

  ‘Just be careful, Lula Mae.’

  ‘Sometimes I get tired o
f being careful,’ says Lula Mae.

  21

  Moe Levy’s Burden

  March 1997. Here’s Max at his desk. Except for the odd engagement or research [sic] trip, this is where he puts in ten hours a day, seven days a week. All those hours and no Page One? Life is hard but today Max has the feeling that there’s going to be a breakthrough. The wallpaper on his Fujitsu/Siemens screen is Winslow Homer’s The Gulf Stream. In it a black man leans on his elbow on the slanting deck of his dismasted and rudderless boat while sharks circle him. Maybe there’s been a hurricane. The sea is wild and there’s a waterspout in the distance. The boat can’t be much more than twenty feet. No visible damage to the hull. Will he make it? Sometimes Max thinks yes, sometimes no. Today he’s thinking yes.

  ‘OK,’ he says to the computer, ‘let’s do it. Going for Page One.’ Fujitsu/Siemens has heard this before but it puts up a blank page for Max as if it takes him seriously. Max has been giving this some thought and already he’s got a name for his protagonist: Morris Levy. ‘We’ll call him Moe,’ he says. MOE LEVY’S BURDEN will be the first chapter if Max gets lucky. Having typed that heading he sighs and sits back, hoping that nothing bad is looking over his shoulder. He’s in his normal working panic. This is still 1997 and there’s nothing threatening him except the blank page. He’s afraid of what might appear on it as he types.

  He gets Moe out of bed and out of the house. So far, so good. Moe’s going to meet his friend Fergal Hagerty for lunch at II Fornello, so he takes the District Line to Earls Court, then changes to the Piccadilly for Russell Square. Coming out of the tube station Moe makes his way past the newsagent and the luggage stall. His head feels strange and for a moment the world stops being there. Then it comes back with a little jolt and he’s aware of a terrible stench. It’s like the smell of a backed-up toilet in an empty house with broken windows. Out of the corner of his eye Moe sees something following him. Is it a dog? A cat? It’s a little man, black as ebony, long body, very short arms and legs, large head, big ugly baby-face. He’s inching along on his belly and writhing like a dog that’s been run over. Moe looks around. Lots of foot traffic but nobody is stepping on the dwarf. Nobody is taking any notice at all. The smell is almost making Moe throw up but he wants to do the decent thing. He says to the dwarf, ‘Are you all right?’