Philip Nolan, a lieutenant in the western division of the army, was a disciple of Aaron Burr, and as such he was court-martialled in 1807 for his adherence to the man who was plotting to overthrow the government. ‘When the president of the court asked him at the close, whether he wished to say anything to show that he had always been faithful to the United States, he cried out, in a fit of frenzy. “D---n the United States! I wish I may never hear of the United States again!”’ The government took him at his word. He was sentenced to spend the rest of his life on ships of the Navy where he would never set foot on the country he had disowned and never hear it mentioned. Transferred from one ship to another, he grew old in his exile. In his one chance at restoring his lost honour he took over the captaincy of a gun crew in a frigate battle with the English and so distinguished himself that the Commodore thanked him and gave him his own sword of ceremony to put on.
But the sentence was never rescinded, and Nolan died at sea on board the US Corvelette Levant. In his cabin were seen his pitiful efforts to reclaim what he had lost. There was a map he had drawn from memory of the United States as he knew it in 1807. There was a hand-drawn portrait of Washington draped with the stars and stripes. There was an eagle with lightning blazing from his beak and his foot clasping the globe. Nolan left a note that said:
Bury me in the sea, it has been my home and I love it.
But will not someone set up a stone for my memory at
Fort Adams or at Orleans, that my disgrace may not be
more than I ought to bear? Say on it:
‘In memory of
PHILIP NOLAN,
Lieutenant in the Army of the United States
HE LOVED HIS COUNTRY AS NO OTHER
MAN HAS LOVED HER; BUT NO MAN
DESERVED LESS AT HER HANDS.’
Max searches for and finds the story on the Internet and prints it out. He reads it with tears running down his face. ‘That’s how it is with me,’ he says. ‘Lola was my country and I am a man without a country.’
73
Her Name Was What?
November 2001. Although Lola has come in very quietly, her mother has heard her and has rushed downstairs to greet her and the sleeping Noah. ‘Even asleep he looks so clever!’ she says.
‘It’s a genetic thing,’ says Lola. ‘But he’s not at all pushy.’
‘You look different,’ says her mother.
‘Well,’ says Lola, ‘I’m four years older than I was four years ago.’
‘I don’t mean that,’ says Lady Bessington. ‘There’s something else.’
‘There’s a lot of something else,’ says Lola. ‘Things change.’
‘Of course things change,’ says her mother. ‘I’m aware of that even with my limited parental intelligence. The thing is to get your changes to connect with the changes around you.’
‘I’m working on it,’ says Lola. ‘I can’t really talk about it yet.’
Noah is put to bed. Lady Bessington, seeing that there isn’t going to be a heart-to-heart, settles for a meaningful hug and a goodnight kiss. Lola has a shower and falls into a deep sleep but wakes up around six and gets dressed. She takes the CD and her sarod and goes to her car. Why the sarod? She couldn’t say, she just feels better when it’s with her. She doesn’t look to see if the Kama Sutra van is nearby, she refuses to accord the dentist any further recognition.
The streets are dark and quiet as she drives to Fulham. Birds are noisy although the day hasn’t properly arrived. She finds a parking space almost in front of Max’s house but she hasn’t planned what to do next. Knock on the door? No. Just slip the CD through the letterbox? With a note? What should the note say? She’ll do a note later. The CD in her hand approaches the letterbox, draws back. Maybe tomorrow.
Tomorrow comes and she does nothing except practise the sarod. ‘What if I leave the CD without a note?’ she says to herself ‘Will he know it’s from me?’
‘Who?’ says Noah.
‘Nobody,’ says Lola. ‘I was talking to myself’
Lola’s parents are worried about the changes in their daughter. ‘Lola dear,’ says Lady Bessington, ‘I don’t want to be intrusive but you seem so troubled. I wish you’d tell me what’s weighing you down.’
‘It ain’t heavy,’ says Lola. ‘It’s my life. Try not to worry.’
Two days after her first trip to Max’s house she again leaves Belgravia alone in the early morning without saying anything to anyone. Again she drives to Fulham. With the sarod. ‘Why Polaris?’ she says to herself. ‘Am I going to serenade him?’ This time there’s a space right in front of Max’s house. She parks and gets out of the car with the CD in her hand. She’s about to start up the steps to Max’s front door when she hears something behind her grunting and breathing hard and there’s Apasmara writhing on the pavement like a dog that’s been run over. ‘You!’ she says. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘You know,’ says the dwarf demon.
‘Indeed I don’t,’ says Lola.
‘Yes, you do,’ says Apasmara. ‘You called me.’
‘I did not!’ says Lola.
‘Yes, you did,’ says Apasmara.
‘Did not!’ says Lola.
‘Did,’ says Apasmara.
‘When?’ says Lola.
‘At Diamond Heart,’ says Apasmara. ‘You opened yourself to me, you held me in your mind. Ummm. Now you’ve sent me here to do my thing, yes.’
‘Rubbish!’ says Lola. ‘You may have occurred to me in a moment of confusion but I didn’t send you here. Go away.’ Suddenly Apasmara does his jumping-spider trick and he’s in her arms, cradled like an infant. God! how he stinks. And he’s so heavy.
‘Hold me,’ he murmurs like a lover.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ says Lola, but before she can stop him he kisses her and slides his tongue into her mouth. Ugh! She heaves Apasmara off her but he grabs the CD, flattens himself, and dives through the letterbox with the CD in his hand. Lola hears it land on the mat inside.
‘Whatever,’ she says. She wipes her mouth with no memory of how it got wet, no recall of the whole encounter. She’s shaking all over but she manages to drive back to Belgravia safely where she opens the door, steps inside, and faints.
74
Whatever
November 2001. ‘Have a little chicken soup,’ says Lady Bessington to Lola. ‘You need to get your strength back.’
‘Chicken soup!’ says Lola. ‘Who are you, some Jewish mother?’
‘All mothers are Jewish mothers,’ says Lady Bessington. ‘Don’t be difficult.’
‘I’m not difficult, just impossible.’ says Lola. ‘What’s going on here?’
‘You’re not well,’ says Lady Bessington. ‘Dr Harley will be here to have a look at you this morning, and we’ll soon have you back on your feet.’
‘Who are you?’ says Lola.
‘I’m your mother,’ says Lady Bessington.
‘Pull the other one,’ says Lola, ‘It’s got ragas on it.’
‘Good morning,’ says Dr Harley. ‘How are we this morning?’
‘How many of us are in this we?’ says Lola.
‘Just you,’ says Dr Harley.
‘Good,’ says Lola. ‘I’m not.’
‘Not what?’ says Dr Harley.
‘Me,’ says Lola.
‘That’s perfectly all right,’ says Dr Harley. ‘I’ll just leave you these tablets and I’ll stop by again tomorrow.’
Lola takes the tablets, and when Dr Harley has left and her mother is out of the room she tries to stand up. Nothing happens.
The first tablets Dr Harley prescribed were Dozit 20mg. On his next visit he prescribes Wazzit 40mg, Thissnt 20mg, and Ennethin 10mg, twice daily with chicken soup as required.
Noah visits his mum several times a day and plays his nakkara while Lola slowly recovers from whatever brought her down. While this is going on Max visits Istvan Fallok, Grace Kowalski, and so on.
After a couple of weeks Lola gets out of bed one m
orning while everyone else is asleep. She doesn’t know who she is and she doesn’t know where she wants to go but she gets dressed and climbs into the E-type and gives it its head. It takes her to Fulham, up the North End Road, through West Kensington, on to the Great West Road, Hogarth Roundabout, and the M4. Motorway miles move towards her, pass under her, the Jaguar purring contentedly and going a little faster all the time. The E-type swallows the miles as the names of towns grow large in front of Lola, small behind her. PUDDLETOWN, says a sign. An arrow points to WEYMOUTH and she makes the turn. Bang! Flap, flap, flap. Flat tyre. Lola pulls over on to the hard shoulder and gets out of the car. It’s a foggy day, although she hasn’t noticed it until now. She hasn’t ever changed a tyre but she’s seen it done. She opens the boot and finds the spare but where are the jack and the lug wrench? She was certain they were here but they’re not now. She looks in her wallet and her driving licence says Lola Bessington but the name means nothing to her. There’s an AA card with a breakdown number but she’s got no mobile. She doesn’t like to leave the E-type to look for a roadside emergency phone so she can think of nothing better to do than wait by the car. In a matter of minutes something appears out of the fog. It’s a white Bedford camper decorated with scenes from the Kama Sutra.
75
Thank You, God!
November 2001. Still that same morning. ‘Hello,’ says Max as he picks up the phone. ‘Is Lola with you?’ says Lady Bessington.
‘No,’ says Max. ‘A couple of weeks ago I looked out of my bedroom window and saw her but by the time I got downstairs she’d gone.’
‘I’m worried about her,’ says Lady Bessington. ‘She hasn’t really been herself lately, and this morning she left without a word while Noah and the rest of us were still asleep.’
‘Noah!’ says Max.
‘Your son,’ says Lady Bessington.
‘My son!’ says Max. ‘My son Noah! And all these years not a word.’
‘I’m sorry about that,’ says Lady Bessington, ‘but perhaps we could go into it later. Just now I want to find Lola. Have you any idea where she might be?’
‘Yes,’ says Max, ‘I do. Can you pick me up as soon as possible?’ He gives her the address.
‘I’m on my way,’ says Lady Bessington. Lord Bessington is away at a conference, which makes things simpler.
When she pulls up in her Range Rover Max jumps in and directs her up the North End Road, through West Kensington, on to the Great West Road, Hogarth Roundabout, and the M4. The Range Rover swallows the miles as the names of towns grow large in front of them, small behind them. ‘How do you know where she’ll be?’ says Lady Bessington to Max.
‘Trust me,’ says Max. ‘She’s all I’ve thought about for the last four years.’ PUDDLETOWN, says a sign, and here are the E-type and a white Bedford camper and Lola struggling with somebody quite a bit larger than Max.
‘Thank you, God!’ says Max. He launches himself out of the Range Rover and on to the man who’s trying to pull Lola into the van. He knocks Geoffrey away from Lola but Max is having a hard time of it until WHAM! Lola swings Polaris with a good follow-through and out go the lights for the dentist.
‘Quick!’ she says, ‘he’s got duct tape. Tape his hands before he comes to. I’m Lola Bessington.’
‘I know who you are, Lola,’ says Max. ‘I’m Max.’
‘How do you do,’ says Lola, standing with both hands on her heart. ‘I’m Lola Bessington.’
‘I’m Max,’ says Max, unconsciously imitating her with his hands on his heart. Having secured Geoffrey, he says, ‘Who’s this?’
‘He’s not nice,’ says Lola. ‘Make him go away.’
Lady Bessington, who is a magistrate, phones the police. The formalities are taken care of and Geoffrey’s banged up in the local nick pending charges. While this is going on Max and Lola are standing there with their arms around each other even though Lola in her state of forgetfulness has only just met him. Perhaps some part of her remembers. The fog has cleared and it looks like being a nice day.
So there it is then. Although Max might have done better in the fidelity department, he’s had destiny on his side. What happens now? Well, Lola’s memory comes back, and she and Max get married at the next vernal equinox: 20 March on Kirsty’s Knowe which, as part of Diamond Heart, has approval for such things. The wedding is an odd little affair, done to Lola’s requirements. There’s no marquee, the whole thing takes place under the sky in which, in this Northern Hemisphere, Ursa Major never sinks below the horizon. It’s a civil ceremony performed by the local registrar but Lola’s in her wedding dress and looking every inch the bride. Max is in proper Moss Bros regalia. Seamus Flannery is best man. Harold Klein would have been among the fifty or so invited guests but has had a fatal rendezvous with a 14 bus a few years back. Hariprasad and Indira Ghosh are there with several other musicians to play Lola’s ‘Smriti’. Noah holds up one corner of his mother’s train and a blonde and blue-eyed Belgravia nymphet has the other. One or two of the guests say ‘who’s that girl in the shawl?’ ‘What girl is that?’ say the ones spoken to. Lord Bessington gives his daughter away with a good grace and Lady Bessington laughs and cries as appropriate. She can’t help thinking what a handsome couple Lola and Basil would have made but she has learned to connect with the changes around her. At the end of the ceremony Lola and Max join hands and recite the names of the seven stars of Ursa Major. Lola’s looking into Max’s eyes as they do this and this time around he feels fully real. They’ve been lucky too, because it hasn’t rained.
The wedding party drive back to Belgravia and this evening there is a proper reception with a big marquee in the garden and a cast of hundreds. Basil was invited but couldn’t make it. The music is provided by The Serenaders, a band who have climbed out of their coffins to schmaltzify the four main Lola songs along with various golden oldies. The young dance to these in the postmodern manner and their seniors do it their way. Lord Bessington regales guests with his account of Max’s impeccable behaviour in the rescue of Lola from the dentist. After a certain amount of champagne and private tuition from Max he joins his son-in-law in a chorus of the Kinky Friedman classic ‘They Ain’t Makin’ Jews Like Jesus Any More’. Lady Bessington laughs and cries some more and tells friends and relatives that Max, who is quite well known to an elite readership, is hard at work on his next novel.
As everyday life resumes Lola carries on with her music and she and Noah (sponsored by Daddy) perform at Wigmore Hall. Charlotte Prickles finds her rhythm again with Charlotte Prickles and the Orphans’ Canoe Trip. And Max is well on his way to Page One of Moe Levy’s Second Chance. The raven and his father’s Noah’s Ark join the lares et penates of his new family and are at home there. Apasmara goes back under Shiva’s right foot and is looking forward to his next breakout.
In moments of intimacy, sometimes when they’re outside looking up at the stars, Lola says to Max, ‘I love you but you don’t deserve me.’
‘I know,’ says Max.
Acknowledgments
The Garibaldi Restaurant and the Diamond Heart Centre exist only in my imagination. For help with the real world I owe thanks to:
John Guy of the Far Eastern Department of the Victoria and Albert Museum for Apasmara sources.
Gundula, my wife, for advice on Lola’s wardrobe and various London sites.
Catherine Frost of the Dorset County Museum and her family for Maiden Castle photographs and notes; John Meyer of Guy Salmon Jaguar for E-type background; Robert Massey of the Greenwich Observatory for astronomical data; the Dorset police for procedural information; my son, Dr Ben Hoban, for medical facts.
Shambhu and Punita Gupta of Indian Music Promotions for descriptions and demonstrations of traditional instruction in Indian classical music and the sarod; Iseabail Macleod of Scottish Language Dictionaries for dialect assistance; Charles Simpson of the Registration Office of Buckie for information on wedding permissions.
Carole Lee for details of Grace Kowalski’s w
orkroom.
Dominic Power for readings of successive drafts and useful comments.
A Note on the Author
Russell Hoban (1925-2011) was the author of many extraordinary novels including Turtle Diary, Angelica Lost and Found and his masterpiece, Riddley Walker. He also wrote some classic books for children including The Mouse and his Child and the Frances books. Born in Lansdale, Pennsylvania, USA, he lived in London from 1969 until his death.
by the same author
THE BAT TATTOO Russell Hoban £6.99 0 7475 6163 X
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When Sarah Varley, an antiques dealer, meets Roswell Clark, an inventor of unusual crash-test dummies, on the steps of the Victoria & Albert Museum it is the beginning of a strange and surprising romance. Roswell, lonely and recently widowed, has decided that he needs a tattoo. He has an image in mind – a bat from an eighteenth-century bowl in the museum. And Sarah, he discovers, is fascinated with the very same bat. Could it be a coincidence, or even divine intervention?
THE MEDUSA FREQUENCY Russell Hoban £6.99 0 7475 5909 0
‘Sparkles with classical allusions and a wisecracking humour at times suggesting the Marx Brothers... Hoban is one of the most truthful writers now at work’ Daily Telegraph
An inexplicable message flashing on the screen of his computer at 3 a.m. heralds the beginning of a startling quest for frustrated author Herman Orff. Taking up the offer of a cure for writer’s block plunges him into a semi-dreamland inhabited by a bizarre combination of characters from myth and reality: the talking head of Orpheus; a lost love; the young girl of Vermeer’s famous portrait – and a frequency of Medusas.
Her Name Was Lola Page 14