The Fabrications

by Baret Magarian

  He listened intently as the man’s and woman’s voices ebbed and flowed, veering toward and moving away from an ecstatic union. As they came to rest another woman’s voice took up from where they had left off, ushered in by shimmering arpeggios from the harp.

  This new voice was icy, and sounded as though it came from far off, from outer space. As it carved out a luminous path the strings and woodwind introduced a recurring subject, and the resultant web of sound attained a trance-inducing level of beauty.

  He was nonplussed. He wondered how it was that this music, which he had been indifferent to, could now hold him so strongly. His arms, neck and face were misting over with cold.

  Then he closed his eyes, as if stirring at the touch of an invisible lover. Thought fell away and he sank into purifying fire, all the while rooted to his chair.

  At last the record reached its end and began to hiccup in its groove. This pulled him out of his reverie and he looked about him, beginning to take in his surroundings again.

  Grindel eventually appeared but it took Oscar a moment to realize that it was actually his landlord. The first surprise was that he was cleanly shaved. He had never seen him without his stubble and he was startled by how youthful he looked. Not only was his face free of its perpetual half-beard, but his body was also kitted out in entirely new – and fatally ill-judged – clothes. Grindel might conceivably have been dressed for a fancy dress party, but he had no party to go to; or costumed for a pantomime, though no theater expected him. He wore a pair of pink shorts reaching down to his knees, revealing mottled, lumpy calves, and a nylon shirt splashed with every possible color, depicting a giant octopus, its tentacles stretching along the length of his sleeves. He was clutching a cheap parasol in one hand and a golf club in the other. The transformation (or humiliation) of Mr. Grindel was now complete.

  ‘Mr. Babel, what are you doing here? Can I help you?’ He slotted his parasol and club into an umbrella stand, walked over to the stereo and dutifully returned the record to its sleeve.

  ‘That music was amazing,’ Oscar mumbled, still taken aback by Grindel’s idiotic sprightliness.

  ‘It’s not half-bad, is it? How can I be of service?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m a bit dazed. I should apologize for inviting myself in like this, but as the door was open and as it seems to be open season around here – I mean, with all these workmen everywhere. I was wondering, why are they here. In other words, Mr. Grindel, what’s going on exactly?’

  ‘Mr. Babel, I’m a changed man.’

  Oscar said nothing, staring blankly at Grindel’s flabby face.

  ‘I see things through my lover’s eyes. I want to be clean and tidy from now on, like her. I want to be able to cut bread smoothly, dust and scrub efficiently, change sheets, wrap up leftovers and eat them before they go off, defrost the fridge. She’s taught me so much, you see. Can I open up to you?’

  Oscar nodded.

  ‘You see, before, I was disgusting, filthy...I had no notion of how to make life beautiful, but Androola has shown me the way. Now I can remove a stain from my trousers; I can boil an egg beautifully. It might not sound like much to you, but for me it’s the dawn of a new era. I used to be afraid of life, Mr. Babel. I needed constant heat and my overcoat; I needed my windows to be permanently shut. With tenants I was rude and negligent; I distrusted them. But now.... You see, I have great plans for this place; I have such plans! That is why the workmen are here, Mr. Babel. I am having this place cleaned up and dusted. New wiring, new wallpaper, new carpets and curtains in the hall. Oh, and of course a new mattress for you, Mr. Babel.’

  Grindel’s address left Oscar feeling drained. He wondered if he would be able to put together a coherent response, since one was eagerly awaited, judging by the sight of Grindel’s bulging eyes.

  Oscar mumbled, ‘That’s wonderful.... So you’re...in love, then?’

  ‘In love, on love, with love,’ he chanted. That’s going a bit far, thought Oscar.

  ‘Do you have anyone special in your life, Mr. Babel?’

  ‘Well...there is someone.... She’s...I last saw her a couple of weeks ago – ’

  ‘I know what you’re thinking; you don’t think I can keep it up. Don’t worry, Mr. Babel. I’m telling you; I’m different now. I’ve put it all behind me.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that.’

  ‘Oh, that reminds me. I’ve got a package addressed to you, Mr. Babel. I picked it up this morning to save it from the paint.’

  Moving slumberously he passed through a small passageway. After a while he returned with a parcel wrapped in brown paper. As Grindel held it close to his chest Oscar couldn’t help noticing a possessive, protective air about him, as if he were holding a baby rather than an inanimate object. He seemed reluctant to part with the parcel as he sagged into an armchair.

  ‘You know,’ said Oscar, ‘I was wondering...’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Babel?’

  ‘Have you seen my cat anywhere?’

  ‘No, Mr. Babel, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘I let her out sometimes into next door’s garden and then she climbs back. I let her out yesterday and I haven’t seen her today. I’m worried she might have gone missing.’

  ‘Well, Mr. Babel, that’s a bit of a blow. I liked that cat. She must have been a great comfort to a bachelor like you.’

  ‘Yes, she was,’ Oscar said.

  He walked across to retrieve the package.

  ‘Can I have the parcel?’ he said, pointing to it with a hesitant forefinger.

  ‘Oh, I clean forgot.’

  Grindel stood up ceremoniously, still hugging the package tenderly. As he did so Oscar was struck by a very distressing thought: Had Grindel murdered Dove? And was his cat now inside the package he was so reluctant to part with? Had Grindel’s old, vile ways secretly re-asserted themselves?

  ‘Mr. Grindel?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Babel.’

  Speaking slowly he said, ‘Do you know what’s inside the package?’

  Oscar stared at it lodged in Grindel’s hands – the box was certainly large enough to hold Dove.

  ‘No, I’m afraid not Mr. Babel. It came this morning with the first post.’

  ‘I see. You’re sure you haven’t seen my cat then?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure, Mr. Babel; I would certainly have told you if I had.’

  ‘Mr. Grindel, can I have the package now?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Very slowly, ritualistically, he handed it over. He could have been parting with a priceless gem, a sacred artifact. For a fraction of a second Oscar thought he looked irritated but then Grindel smiled politely and bowed his head.

  Once in the hallway Oscar took a couple of deep breaths. He was anxious to open the box in the privacy of his room but frightened about what he might find. As he ran up the stairs the workmen, having cut short their tea break, chose that moment to begin beating their hammers, sawing through wood, drilling through concrete and the resulting ear-splitting level of sound annihilated thought.

  Once inside his bedsit he bolted his door. A strong wind was blowing from the window and the curtains were swelling and billowing wildly. He looked around for Dove, scrambling under the bed, searching inside the cupboard, tossing aside the blankets in her basket. There was no sign of her. He was just about to open the parcel when the phone rang.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, sticking a finger in his ear to block out the sound of the drilling.

  ‘Oscar.’ There was no mistaking that manufactured, unctuous voice, which delivered its every utterance with undue rigor and emphasis. ‘This is Ryan Rees.’

  ‘Can I call you back?’

  ‘I’m about to be cut off as it is.’

  ‘Well then, call me later.’

  ‘Oscar – ’

  The line went dead. Oscar sat down heavily on his bed, which sagged and squeaked, and stared at the parcel. He took a couple of deep breaths. The curtains subsided with the wind and became quite still.

  He was afrai
d to open the parcel. Opening it might enclose him, might cause him to fall apart.

  From below, the ruinous sound of the drills refused to abate. To Oscar it felt like his bedsit had uprooted itself and settled down onto the exposed tier of a building site. There he was to spend his days in a bracing outdoor setting. In the winter time he would be rained on, hailed on, spat on by workmen; in the summer the sun would make him wilt, until at last, slowly, all around, the building would begin to take shape – girders fall into place, windows slide downwards, scaffolding be dismantled – and he would be buried alive in a pitiless steel structure.

  He was yanked back to the presence of the parcel. He tried – calmly and rationally – to account for his fears, which, he was amazed to find, still persisted. Grindel’s continued benevolence made him nervous. His new persona struck him in some way as unreal, collapsible. Had Grindel secretly committed a senseless act of evil to make up for all his recent acts of kindness? Was he now attempting to give himself up?

  If Oscar’s cat was inside that parcel the world would no longer make sense, and anything could and would happen: Oxford Street would fill with sardines, as Bloch had said; Big Ben would stop chiming. He had to ready himself for what he was about to see – harden his heart. Images flooded into his head of Grindel howling and cackling like a lunatic as he prepared to carry out his monstrous practical joke, brandishing a carving knife. He saw Grindel’s jowls quivering, his beady eyes locked in a hideous leer, his lips drooling with saliva. He saw Grindel being carted away, handcuffed and straitjacketed.

  He started unwrapping the paper. Then he opened the box.

  Dove was not inside it.

  Of course she wasn’t.

  “Thank you, God, thank you,” he said evenly.

  Instead of his cat he found a pile of magnetic tapes stacked up in two columns. There were flecks of a white substance lightly dusted over them. Licking a finger, he hesitantly tasted a trace of the unknown.

  It was icing sugar.

  He stared blankly at the box for quarter of an hour.

  Then the phone rang again.

  ‘Hello, Oscar speaking,’ he said nervously.

  ‘It’s Ryan Rees. Sorry about that. The network went down. How’s the prophet of London?’

  ‘Please don’t call me that.’

  ‘Why not? It suits you. I’m ringing about the Duchamp banquet.’

  ‘I’m not going. You didn’t even ask my permission. When did you arrange it anyway?’

  ‘About a week ago if memory serves.’

  ‘What am I meant to be speaking about?’

  ‘The future of painting.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about its future. Why should I? I’m not a painter. Or rather I’m a failed painter. I’m not even that. I’m not even a failed painter anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Pretend to be something I’m not.’

  There was a moment’s silence. He could hear Rees’ rasping, carnivorous breath. Oscar sensed that a new line of attack was taking shape inside him, his brain clicking and blinking like a computer.

  ‘Oscar, you’re an interesting man,’ Rees started again. ‘You have energy, charisma, classic good looks and something valuable to say.’

  ‘Look, cut the shit. What do you want from me?’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘That’s a pity, because I can give you almost anything.’

  ‘What was the point of plastering those posters all over the place?’

  ‘Oscar, don’t be so hard on yourself.’

  ‘And what about all that ridiculous crap you’ve been devising on the Internet? You shouldn’t write such things.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you’re referring to.’

  ‘You said that I’ve been to Oxford and studied Sanskrit. And the rest. That ludicrous volcanic soap. All that horseshit. None of it’s true.’

  ‘The truth’s boring, Oscar.’

  ‘Well, I don’t want to be associated with all your elaborate lies.’

  ‘Oscar, it’s just a bit of harmless fun. People want to meet you, hear you speak. My office has been flooded with e-mails asking about you. And by the fucking way, I think we could make a killing with BabelSoap, I’ve got a guy on the case right now; he’s this anorak geek, got a chemistry lab that he blows himself up in from time to time, but he knows soap like the back of his hand. Or what’s left of it.’

  Oscar ignored this and barked, ‘How did you arrange this Duchamp thing anyway?’

  ‘Monty Bell’s a friend of mine.’

  ‘Who the hell is Monty Bell?’

  ‘A juror for the Duchamp Prize. He told me that Mac Llewelyn, who was meant to be speaking originally, has got a fistula on his backside. So I pulled a few strings and I managed to get you in instead, since you have expertise in the field of painting and since your backside is fine. It’s a high-profile event – media coverage, celebrities – and you could shine.’

  ‘Tell me something: why are you bothering with me? I’m causing you expense. I’m not making you money.’

  ‘That’s true, but I like challenges. You know Oscar, can I tell you a few things about myself?’

  ‘I get the feeling you’re going to regardless of my answer.’

  ‘I’m what, if you were to ask them, people would describe as a Man of Influence. I command respect in the media; I’m feared. I dine at the Ritz and swim at the RAC. I have done it all, seen it all, eaten it all. So I want another challenge, something to make the public bite its lip, to give hope to the morons who get drunk daily on beer and soap operas. I thought to myself, “Why not take a man like Oscar and make something of him.”’ For a moment he seemed to flounder, his slick rhythm eluding him, but then he picked up again. ‘Now, don’t get me wrong, you have substantial qualities of your own, of course you do, that’s plain to see. That’s why I want to give you a voice but I want it to reverberate courtesy of modern technology.’

  ‘But I keep telling you I’ve nothing to say.’

  ‘What about your little speech on love? You read Tom Beard’s review. He practically called you a genius.’

  ‘What if I told you that everything I said on that program was derived from someone else’s head?’

  ‘Oscar, Oscar, don’t be so naive. Do you think there’s such a thing as originality anymore? Everything’s recycled from everything else. Besides, the idea that an idea is untouchable is a sick one.’

  ‘I’m sick as well, but not as sick as you are.’

  Great gales of laughter blew down the telephone line. Oscar had to move the handset away from his ear. But even then the roars were clearly audible. This was laughter like no other. It utterly, crushingly nullified his riposte, announcing that Rees’s mighty imperturbability remained unscathed. After a while the guffaws began to subside.

  ‘Oscar, do you really want to stay a nobody all your life? Here I am offering you the chance to do something beautiful. Don’t you want respect and love and adoration? I can give you those things. And women will flock to you, Oscar. And gourmet meals and fine wines will be yours. And you will have caught a flash of glory before it ebbs away.’

  ‘And what’s in it for you?’

  ‘The sense that I have contributed to the community and that I am personally fulfilled, my boy.’

  ‘That’s royal duckshit,’ said Oscar.

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Oscar. Speak at the Duchamp Prize. Speak about anything you like. Fuck the future of painting. Lay into those fools. Think of it. You can do it. You can cut through the pomp of the art world, the postures and airs and graces. Tell them, Oscar. Moses at Sinai. Jesus in the temple. You can do it, Oscar. You can do it. Pay them back, the no-talent, mediocre elite, swigging champagne and settling back for evenings of fun and games. Tell them that we’re all destined for hell, that we’ve managed to make a mess and call it art, managed to drink and call it sophistication, managed to get lost and call i
t charm. How can you miss this opportunity? Who’s got the real backbone? Most have just a few vertebrae, the rest cotton wool. You can make a difference. Don’t you want to soak like a sponge in all the attention? This speech won’t be about the art world: it will be about the truth!’

  Rees was enraptured by his own words – he had surpassed himself – what spell-binding precision – how skillfully made were those gold dust sentences!

  ‘I thought you said the truth was boring,’ said Oscar flatly.

  ‘Oscar, don’t split hairs. I’ve got to go now. So what do you say?’

  ‘I’m not sure; I’ll have to think about it.’

  ‘Oscar, it’s just a speech, that’s all; I’m not asking you to steal the crown jewels.’

  He returned the phone to its cradle and turned to stare at the box again. He took all the cassettes out and examined the bottom of the box for something to explain its contents. Nothing. He opened up all the cases and finally, in the last cassette, to his relief, he found a small note. He unfolded it carefully.

  Dear Oscar,

  Enclosed are some tapes full of my thoughts on life, love, art, the whole thing. You may find what I have to say of interest. You’re free to use what you like as you wave your saber. If these various grunts and moans are of help to you, I’m glad. Feel free to shred them otherwise. Please don’t come and see me anymore. Webster is with me. I’m unfit for company and would like to enter a long period of hibernation in the middle of this glorious summer. Just like me to be so contrary.

  D. Bloch.

  P.S. ON NO ACCOUNT SHOULD YOU COME AND SEE ME. OUR FRIENDSHIP HAS PLAYED ITSELF OUT. THE LAST MEMBERS OF THE ORCHESTRA ARE PACKING UP THEIR FIDDLES. LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE; BETTER STILL SHOOT THE MUTTS. I CAN’T GIVE YOU ANYTHING ELSE – I’VE DONE MY BIT – IT’S UP TO YOU NOW.

  Snatches of Tristan returned to him. He tried to put them out of his mind. And then he felt tears well up in his eyes. Through their cloudy veil he re-read the note disbelievingly. It was unimaginable – to exclude him like this. Why was he doing it? Had he really become so unbearable to Bloch?