The Fabrications

by Baret Magarian

  ‘I’m sure she had her reasons. In any case, those things you say aren’t exactly kind,’ said Oscar. ‘You see, I happen to be very fond of Najette and I’d rather you didn’t speak about her like that. Perhaps we can resolve this problem.’

  ‘What makes you think I want this problem to be resolved, or that you’re in a position to resolve it for me? You’re just a child playing in the bathtub with your rubber ducks.’

  ‘Najette is the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met. Just when you think she’s coming into focus...something else appears. It sounds like you can’t have understood her. She’s...radiant, she seizes life with every fiber; and she makes me seize life. You can’t treat Najette like you can other women; she’s...she’s like vapor, so light...so vaporous...’

  ‘Well done, Oscar, that was very poetic.’

  ‘Maybe. But just because you’ve had a bad experience with her – and I’m not sure you really have – don’t dress your grievances up so grandly.’

  This silenced Nicholas and for once he recognized there was something in what Oscar had said. Nicholas had experienced a wonderful closeness to Najette, then seen it gradually slip away; the intimacy that had once been so natural had become a breeding ground for recrimination. On the other hand, Nicholas thought, perhaps Oscar was right; perhaps he hadn’t really appreciated or understood her. Perhaps a stranger could grasp more about someone within the first moments of meeting them than a lover who had tasted everything, agony and ecstasy?

  ‘Can I buy you a coffee?’ Nicholas asked, slightly sheepishly.

  Oscar looked around at the turning tide of people, standing, walking, sitting, sketching. He felt strangely apart, held at arm’s length from any sense of participation. Nicholas too was apart, apart from the community; but he wanted to be different and made a point of it, wanting to stand out.

  ‘If you like.’

  They made for the exit. Once outside Nicholas lit a Turkish cigarette, and at intervals smoke seeped from his nostrils like two tiny tornadoes turned on their heads.

  At the corner of the street a violinist was playing Bach and a small crowd had gathered around her, in spite of the unusually cold day. Nicholas tugged Oscar’s arm, instructing him to stop. The music glowed brilliantly, arpeggios exploding in cascades of sound. As they stood there, fragments of Nicholas’s earlier observations about Najette circulated in Oscar’s mind. Oscar suspected that for Nicholas these remarks left no trace after they were made; whereas for him they became obstacles blocking his view of the present, as he intermittently considered and reconsidered their truthfulness. As a result he didn’t really hear the music. And then, in turn, words from Bloch’s story suddenly surfaced: He was incapable of surrendering to an experience, since he was constantly preoccupied with another problem. Have I always been like that? he wondered.

  ‘Are you busy tonight?’ Nicholas asked.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Do you want to go to the Pleasure Cooker with me?’

  ‘What kind of place is that?’

  ‘It’s a place for people like me.’

  ‘And what are people like you like?’

  Nicholas paused.

  ‘Damned, if you really want to know.’

  The music reached its final angry, defiant chord and the crowd started to disperse. The evening was gathering now and in the atomization of the sky, in the membrane of nebulous sounds stretching out all around them, Oscar was surprised to find a still point enclosing him. But then, with that purposefulness he could summon at will, Nicholas marched off and Oscar followed him, into a decadent and wine-splattered world.

  8

  A fortnight later Oscar had an appointment with the über-publicist Ryan Rees.

  Albert Lush’s documentary (“Naked Art”) had been screened. Ryan Rees, after studying Oscar’s contribution, had concurred with his associate Donald Inn that, potentially at least, Oscar seemed an ideal candidate for the role of a messiah. He had phoned him at his bedsit and Oscar had agreed at last to meet with him just to get him off the phone.

  Their rendezvous was to take place in the unlikeliest of places – a small library hidden in the cloisters behind Westminster Abbey. Ryan Rees was there amassing information on the architecture of the small square that lay adjacent to the cloisters.

  Having a few minutes to spare Oscar decided to wander around the square – Dean’s Yard – beforehand. It was the middle of July and London was experiencing sub-tropical heat and scorching sunlight. When Oscar closed his eyes he could see a field of dancing colors, moving shapes and patterns. On opening them again everything was cast in a purplish haze that made existence unreal and stripped life of its problems. But then they slowly returned to him; chiefly, his financial situation which had deteriorated dramatically – he no longer had even the small income from modeling. This was because he had given it up.

  Lush’s documentary had attracted negligible interest, though Oscar’s contributions were singled out as mildly interesting. Because of the way Oscar’s speech was edited – portions of it were slotted throughout the program at key moments – it appeared his was the dominant voice of the work, lending it an authoritative, authentic pulse that held it together, and provided much-needed continuity. The documentary consisted of interviews with models, footage of art classes in progress, (and the images of the flustered string quartet), shots of Michelangelo’s sculptures, and nudes by Picasso. It was a competent, though somewhat plodding piece, obsessed with the body, questioning whether nudity in the art room was truly free of an arousing factor, examining the difference between the aesthetic and the erotic. The positioning of the footage of the naked model early on had amounted to a stroke of genius – since she made people stay with the program in the hope of seeing more of her later on. But they were disappointed to find she didn’t return.

  He began making his way toward the cloisters. In the central square a fountain gurgled agreeably; it was framed on all sides by an immaculate lawn and surrounded by the venerable stone of the abbey. Oscar listened to the fountain. As he closed his eyes and focused on the sound he imagined he was in another country, in a strange land, lost in an abstract landscape. At last he started to make his way around the cloisters until he found a sign marked The Lowe Library. He pressed an intercom.

  ‘I’m here to see Mr. Rees.’

  A metallic voice said, ‘Up the wooden staircase. On. The. Left.’

  The door snapped open. He walked through a passageway and entered the small, deserted library, carefully sealed from the world. It felt pleasingly cool after the heat of the courtyard. Huge books with red, cracked spines lined the shelves, dropping into the light pearls of their wisdom, but there were none to retrieve them. Crudely shaped pipes ran along the circumference of the room, behind the shelves, sucked into walls. A withdrawn, etched silence enveloped everything, only occasionally disturbed by the creaking floorboards. Higher up, there was a small ledge crowded with endless piles of books and wads of what Oscar imagined were legal documents, tied in red ribbons. A ladder led up to this ledge, though it was hard to see how anyone who wasn’t either a child or a midget could climb it. There was a portrait of a bishop hanging on the wall and his sinister eye followed Oscar as he made his way up the staircase. He reached the top and found himself in a windowless study, illuminated by a single table lamp. A small, middle-aged woman, with an obviously earnest manner, and a man he took to be Rees (he couldn’t see his face as his back was turned to him) were deep in conversation. The woman’s yellowing skin looked as if it might have been grafted out of the parchments lying on the desk. Neither of them was in any particular hurry to acknowledge him.

  ‘Late Georgian and fourteenth-century for the school, a most excellent building,’ she was saying, ‘and the church house – a model if ever there was one – dates from the late nineteen-hundred-and-thirties, with a stone front and flint-faced ground floor.’

  The man looked around and Oscar glimpsed his face for about three seconds. When he turne
d back again Oscar found he had instantly forgotten the shape of that face. The woman was still speaking. Her voice was low, as if by speaking softly she could better preserve the precious, crumbling parchments.

  When she had finished the man said, in smooth tones, ‘I’m very much obliged. I shan’t take up any more of your time. I think I have all I need. Would you mind if this gentleman’ – he gestured to Oscar without turning – ‘and I sat downstairs to discuss some business of our own?’

  The librarian stared uneasily. ‘It will not take too long?’

  ‘No, no, we’ll be gone before you can say Christopher Wren.’

  The man turned around again and Oscar had a chance to study him. He was dressed in a light summer blazer and immaculately creased trousers. While his clothes suggested the epitome of refinement his face and skin created an altogether different impression. His nose was slightly pressed in, and his eyes had receded into their sockets; he had a set of runner bean lips. It was even possible to imagine this was not a real face but an incredibly sophisticated mask since his features were bereft of the faintest suggestion of expressiveness. He seemed to have sprung intact from another planet. And about him hung the possibility that he might at any moment transmogrify into an iguana or giant lizard.

  He ushered Oscar downstairs and they found a couple of chairs. Now this uncanny figure took a moment to examine Oscar. What he saw pleased him: youth, height, a certain innocence and physical beauty. He did not see anyone obviously exceptional or brilliant or charismatic. He saw someone he could manipulate easily, without much fuss. He saw a blank space waiting to be filled. At last he managed something like a smile and declared, in that smooth, almost fabricated voice, ‘Ryan Rees, at your service.’

  ‘Oscar Babel, at yours.’

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. I must apologize if I might have been a tad exasperating when we spoke on the phone, but persistence is one of my chief character traits. Now then. People liked the documentary, but, to be honest, apart from your contributions I thought it was a piece of shit. The direction was appalling and I don’t know what went wrong with the sound. The scene with the string quartet was plain ridiculous. But never mind. The reason why I called you was that I might just be able to get you a spot on BBC 2’s new late night discussion forum – “After Meditation.” They want to do a discussion on sexual love for the first edition. Each week they plan to rope in a member of the general public to join a panel of critics, intellectuals and other cunts. I think I can squeeze a grand out of them. Rather handsome, wouldn’t you say? This is just what you need. Things will grow from there. You have to start to build a name for yourself and I’m in an optimum position to come up with the cement and bricks, if you follow. I can represent you Oscar. Open doors.’

  ‘But build myself up as what?’

  ‘An original voice. You have what it takes. To be the scourge of society.’

  ‘But I always wanted to be a painter.’

  ‘Well, you would have been one by now if that was your destiny. It’s obvious you have certain, shall we say, political, talents, and I’m here to push them, to set you up.’

  ‘But in what capacity?’

  ‘A vast one, with any luck. Think of it, Oscar. A philosopher who is popular, a thinker who is entertaining. Forget actors and writers and the rest. You’ll be a one-off. There are a thousand writers, a thousand performers. I see you as a spiritual teacher, a visionary who has access to a microphone, not oblivion. Think of Christ. Christ was a philosopher; he also happened to work miracles. Leave the miracles to me, Oscar. You just get up there and speak; it’s what you’re good at. Whenever you open your mouth, something profound seems to seep out. We can call you the Prophet of London. We’ll get you a website, start rolling a few balls, turning a few heads. What’s your e-mail?’

  ‘Don’t have one.’

  Oscar thought about what Rees had just said. The prospect of being paid £1000 had obvious appeal, especially in his present circumstances. As he was considering his response he felt waves of palpable energy emanating around Rees’s orbit. A distinct component of this energy seemed dangerous, as if he were standing uncomfortably close to a source of radioactivity or a vat of sulphuric acid. Rees’ words appeared so well-chosen, flattering and judicious that Oscar realized he had none to offer in response. He glanced around at the massive monographs and encyclopedias falling into ruin, the glutinous pipes that ran behind the shelves. They were gurgling and making ominous sounds, having chosen this moment to come to grotesque life.

  ‘This thing is fixed for a week’s time. I’ll speak to my people,’ Rees declared magisterially, sensing that he had wrung unstated acquiescence from him.

  Then the librarian climbed down the stairs.

  ‘Sirs, it pains me but I am obliged to ask you to take your leave. I overhear your worldly words. The library is not made for this. It is a place of learning.’

  Oscar was irritated by the bizarre way in which she spoke.

  She went on: ‘I have extended the hand of friendship, gilded with fine sentiments and the best intentions. To do the work of kindness was welcome to me, but now my own work calls like a divine bugle; I must apply silence if I am to be productive. Besides, the Dean is due in the instant and he may be forlorn to find strangers here.’

  ‘You need peace and quiet,’ Oscar began seriously, ‘but the world is noisy.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Oscar, not now,’ Rees growled. The pipes’ gurgling was growing more defiant and disquieting by the minute.

  Undeterred, Oscar continued, ‘Don’t shy away from life and love; don’t do what I used to do; don’t shut yourself up in a dark room, retreating from life! There’s a whole world out there! Leave all this dust. You are a woman, bursting with the feminine springs of creativity; don’t bung it up with books. Spread your legs – sorry, I mean wings...’

  The librarian squealed dementedly, ‘Not-another-word!’ After this her face went into a kind of spasm. Her eyes blazed but did not move; her teeth locked and her face turned blood red. Then – her body clenched, her movements robotic – she picked up a sharp letter opener from a nearby table and held it aloft. For a horrible moment Oscar thought she was going to stab herself, but the instrument fell from her lifeless hands, clattering coldly, and at the same time she slumped into a chair.

  Then she began to cry, long, broken sobs and her body heaved violently back and forth, like a rocking horse. ‘It’s no use...no use,’ she kept saying. By now the pipes seemed like living creatures, hissing, groaning, unleashing a truly freakish set of sounds.

  Rees grabbed Oscar by the collar and pulled him away while there was still time.

  ‘Save all that shit for later, when there’s a fucking camera present,’ he screamed noiselessly.

  On their way out they encountered the Dean who asked them what they were doing coming out of a private area. Rees was only able to mollify him by babbling something about research, speaking knowledgeably about the front of the church house and by offering him a large cigar, which the Dean eyed suspiciously before accepting.

  Moments later the Dean discovered the librarian, dumbstruck, but humming a tune he hadn’t heard in thirteen years.

  *

  Later on Oscar had an appointment with Najette at the Lumiere Cinema in Covent Garden. He was late by twenty-five minutes. Najette had told him she wouldn’t wait if he was late as she couldn’t bear to miss the beginning of a film. After looking around outside he assumed she had gone inside.

  There were about twenty people scattered around the auditorium. Oscar looked about; his attention was caught by the narrow beam of light issuing from the projection room, a brilliant thin essence, particles of dust dancing in its pathway. He studied it almost reverentially, then turned once more to the silhouetted heads, and took up his search, peering at each one, trying his best not to seem obtrusive. In the dark people were anonymous and characterless, mere shapes, oval structures of shadow. Any of those shapes might have bee
n Najette, and the fact that he had to sift through them all stripped her of her distinctiveness. But as he was turning to begin the search again, he glimpsed a circle stirring in the front row, and saw the circle light up as it protruded into the bright image running at that moment. It was Najette. He crept up, and very gently sat down beside her. A series of whispers began.

  ‘Did you meet him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He promised me fame and money.’

  ‘And do you want fame and money?’

  ‘Doesn’t everyone?’

  They turned their attention to the film.

  Oscar found he couldn’t really enter into it. This was not only because he had missed the opening but also because he was constantly on the lookout for a little black spot to appear in the top right hand corner of the frame, a spot that signaled the moment at which the reels of the film had to be changed, as he knew from his days as a projectionist. Even though this cinema – like almost all – projected films digitally, he found he couldn’t quite shake off his old training.

  Oscar felt a longing for Najette rise up and wash over him like a gathering tide, until he was helpless in its incoming rush and could only sit there, pinned down, incapable of moving his head, of turning to watch her. He badly wanted to touch her, to feel her ebony hair in his palms and fingers, to feel the hair curl and uncurl and release. Just her hair, Oscar thought, just let me touch that and I’ll be happy. I have no right to taste her body. Within a moment he could stretch out a hand and connect with her. Within a moment it could be done, but he could not bridge the space between them. There might as well have been a valley separating them. When she crossed her legs Oscar stole a glance at the skirt tightly pressed along the slender line of her thighs, hugging her. He envied that simple material because it was close to her, moved with her, never left her.