The Fabrications

by Baret Magarian

  He turned away from the windows, and puffed on a cigarette, its wafting clouds intact with the density bequeathed to those who don’t inhale. The windows were so large they occupied virtually an entire wall, giving the onlooker the feeling of being giddily interconnected to the emptiness outside. Indistinct impressions and memories of his old bedsit returned. Sitting there, staring at his new, elegant surroundings he couldn’t entirely free himself of the suspicion that soon someone would have him evicted from them. He was fearful of staining an armchair with smudged fingers or of breaking one of the glasses or wetting the bed at night, the pink double bed which felt as different to his old bed in Elephant and Castle as a kiss feels to a punch. He had so much space he didn’t know what to do with it – the living room alone was ten times the size of his bedsit, an enormity with alcoves in each corner bathed in the light of zinc-galvanized steel lamps. The walls were color-washed in a rich red over cream which blended with the burgundy of the muslin curtains, and the sleek paintings hanging on the wall – depicting landscapes of rich, fecund greenery, enigmatic figures amid screens of foliage – were not so much windows into other worlds as mirrors bringing the room back into itself, forcing the spectator to confront the equally lush landscape of the room. Everything was eclectically stylish: a Viennese secession screen; a bent beechwood rocking chair with a caned back; crystalline ashtrays looking as if they had been chiseled, like tiny embryos, out of the Strass crystal chandelier; a modernist cream sofa. But the centerpiece of the living room was the drinks cabinet which resembled a miniature chapel: a squat, brightly-polished mahogany square with small doors open at either side, inviting the onlooker to covetously behold the neatly arranged bottles within. The miniature bottles of spirits (spirits whose potency was masked by the daintiness of their vessels) were tightly clustered together and chimed like bells when one of them was removed. Behind the glass shelves, where wine and brandy glasses were lined up, a mirrored, brightly lit wall illuminated the contents of the cabinet while creating the illusion that its stocks were inexhaustible.

  But Oscar’s favorite part of his suite was the gold-plated bathroom, always sparkling as a result of the miracle of a daily clean. It was wonderful to bathe in a tub not only free of the communal grime of Grindel’s house but also large enough for him to be able to submerge the full length of his long body.

  A melodious ringing. Oscar stubbed his cigarette out in one of the dozen or so ashtrays near to hand. In fact he had, in a display of profligacy he now regretted, used seven of these for the collection of respective units of ash. The ringing continued with polite insistence. That was another thing he had to get used to: connecting such an agreeable sound with the telephone.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Did the woman from Cherubs turn up?’

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, Rees. How are you?’

  ‘When she gets there, tell her to call me – ’

  ‘It’s a beautiful morning, I quite agree. I was just about to have some breakfast. Eggs Benedict and – ’

  ‘By the way, don’t worry about the tse-tse flies buzzing around you. No one can reach you there, in reference to the Duchamp Prize or anything else – ’

  ‘And croissants and some gorgeous looking figs – ’

  ‘Look, Oscar, why do you insist on being facetious? I’ve put you in the lap of luxury.’

  ‘And pears and...and – but I suspect it’s a gilded cage.’

  ‘It should be; you’re my prize parrot. So remember to go over your party pieces. They’re fucking priceless. Au revoir.’

  He walked over to his breakfast. On the table sat a silver coffee pot in which he could see his distorted reflection, a plate of eggs Benedict, butter croissants and muffins, fresh orange juice, pears, prunes, figs, frozen yoghurt, and cinnamon toast. There was enough there for three people. He tried his best to eat most of it so it didn’t go to waste. Everything tasted delicious, the coffee felt velvety and aromatic in his mouth and he was reluctant to let it finally slide into his stomach, but when he did so he felt a shiver of well-being. As he was beginning to tackle some of the fruit, feeling a bit puffed-up, the phone went again.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘Is that Oscar Babel?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sorry to bother you Mr. Babel. My name’s Mark Anderson. I’m from Art Attack. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the Duchamp Prize of a few days ago.’

  Hadn’t the tse-tse flies been turned away at the door? So Rees’s iron grip on the media wasn’t as iron as he’d reckoned. He was delighted to find the über-publicist had finally got something wrong. Good for Mr. Anderson.

  ‘Sure, but isn’t it a bit old hat now?’

  ‘Did you know Cyril Vixen is planning to sue you?’

  ‘Me? Wouldn’t it make more sense to sue Mark Redhill?’

  ‘He says your remarks at the banquet sparked off the attack on him.’

  ‘But that’s silly; it was Redhill who sprayed deodorant in his eyes...’

  ‘Yes, but he’s very upset with you. I suppose you know he was admitted to the hospital a few days ago; well, on the night of the banquet in fact?’

  ‘What’s happened to Mark Redhill?’

  ‘He was held overnight in a police cell. Then a shrink turned up; there’s something about a report and how he recently tried slashing his wrists – the same old jazz – aborted razor suicide. Apparently he’s got a history of slicing himself up – I think he should go into performance art; there’s a big market for that sort of thing, you know; you must have heard about that German guy who stands on stage and hacks off bits of his body? He sent his big toe to his girlfriend in Munich on Valentine’s Day. The things we do for love, hey? Anyway, Redhill was depressed about his film. I don’t really blame him – it was monumentally dire.’

  Oscar started cutting up a pear into roughly equal segments. There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Look, can you hold on a minute...’

  Oscar yelled a slightly hoarse ‘Come in’ and a small, stooping Portuguese maid, her left hand overflowing with keys, her right arm wrapped around a pile of pillowcases, bundled in. She greeted him with blood-curdling liveliness and moved quickly into the bedroom, displaying all the purposefulness of one who is utterly wedded to her work.

  ‘Where were we?’ Oscar asked.

  ‘Litigation.’

  ‘But he can’t sue me. On what grounds?’

  ‘Defamation of character, I imagine. I just wanted to hear your thoughts on the subject. Oh, he also called you a charlatan who talks shit.’

  ‘Whereas he just photographs it. Maybe we should sue each other; that would be droll.’

  ‘Would you care to refute his accusation?’

  Oscar’s gaze drifted toward the window – the glass was so transparent he could imagine passing his hand through it. He started chewing a piece of pear. From the bedroom came scraps of a Portuguese love song; even though the maid couldn’t really sing Oscar found her voice unexpectedly affecting. Then she scooted back in and out into the corridor, reappearing with a mop and bucket in readiness for her assault on the bathroom.

  ‘Mr. Babel. Are you there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m “there.” I’m everywhere.’

  ‘Quite. I just hope you don’t hire body doubles to lure the press away from the original. He called you a charlatan. Are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Anderson was confused – he no longer knew how to play this game at all. He could deal with charlatans – the world was full of them – but he wasn’t quite sure if he could deal with charlatans who said they were charlatans. He cleared his throat and decided Babel was being icily ironic.

  ‘Did you want to ask me anything else?’ Oscar asked.

  ‘What did you hope that little protest of yours was going to lead to?’

  ‘Nothing much. It’s the papers which are making it into such a big deal.’

  ‘And what do you think about that?’

  ‘I suppose it just de
monstrates that people will go to any lengths to give space to conflict, especially if it concerns the famous. The planet could be exploding and they’d still be worried about filling the gossip columns.’

  ‘But isn’t all this rather good publicity for you?’

  ‘I’m not very important in the grand scheme.’

  ‘But still – you’re getting some fine exposure.’

  ‘What happened the other night had nothing to do with me – I was just a channel for someone else’s thoughts.’

  ‘That sounds suspiciously like you’re refusing to take responsibility. It was actually you on the podium speaking, wasn’t it?’

  ‘We should stop making such a fuss all the time about nothing. I’m not that interesting – children are interesting – the sky’s interesting, but nobody looks at it anymore because it’s not in a gallery and doesn’t have a price tag.’ Before he knew what was happening, unbidden words from Bloch’s recordings were rising to his lips, drifting up from his viscid unconscious. ‘There are too many sounds, too much information, too many images. Look around you and ask: what in all this dross, this infinite supermarket that the world has become, what in all this mass-produced bile truly has the right to exist and doesn’t just amount to the blood and mucus dripping from a newly ejected baby?’

  ‘Well...em...I mean...now you’ve put me on the spot...eh...’

  Here – Anderson mused – was someone who wasn’t bothered about towing the line, about being cooperative and playing by the rules. Oscar was getting under his skin, earning his respect. By repeatedly emphasizing his insignificance he was acquiring significance. He was strong or bored or mad enough to call a spade a spade.

  ‘Do you think you could just repeat that little speech – it was kind of quotable.’

  The maid emerged from the bathroom, as energetic as ever. She stomped off, still singing merrily.

  ‘Mr. Anderson, I should go now.’

  ‘OK but can you just repeat the bit about the supermarket and the baby, that was great, what was it?’

  Oscar said nothing.

  ‘The bit about the supermarket. What was the word you used? Hey? The bit about the baby? The supermarket? Are you there...?’

  Oscar sighed, replaced the handset quietly, and shuffled off to run a bath. After he’d turned the thermostat to the required temperature he opened the tap, then walked over to his cassette player and rummaged around for Bloch’s recordings. He was on the point of slotting a tape into the player when he was stopped short. An inanimate object – a piece of plastic and tape, a breakable trifle – but in that rectangle was the essence of something: the best of his old friend, an incorporeal reality which he could preside over. Then, on the heels of some mental adjustment, for the first time he found the idea of his spurious guru role appealing. It was as if a constricting jacket had widened out and suddenly fit. Bloch’s act of severance had brought pain, but now he didn’t need him – he had his voice, his thoughts, his interesting theories about life and death, love and sex. He could be Bloch.

  The voice started speaking. Oscar caught slow intakes of breath, and every now and then an asthmatic wheeze. As the voice continued he sank back in an armchair, listening impassively. For a moment he had trouble connecting the voice with the person.

  Once again, the door was announcing that someone was on its other side. Who was it now? The valet? The barman? Or Cyril Vixen hobbling on crutches and out for revenge? He pressed the STOP button.

  ‘Hello – Mr. Babel? Mr. Babel – I’m from Cherubs and Co – I’ve got a few ideas – I had a bit of trouble finding you – gosh, what a fabulous room. Those curtains – are they chintz?’ she said in one nervous breath, hurrying toward the curtains and dropping her portfolio. Oscar stared at her, scrambled after her, picked up her book, and tapped her on the shoulder while her hand lovingly caressed the curtain’s length.

  ‘I could do something with this,’ she said dreamily as though she were alone. ‘This could be fabulous. Oh – did I drop that?’

  Asking the question confirmed (in a sudden flash) what Oscar already suspected: that his new visitor was a scatterbrain. But he would humor her, at least until he’d established what it was she wanted.

  ‘I’m always dropping things. I’m a little bit nervous – I’ve heard so much about you – I’m Cressida.’

  ‘Of course you are. I’m sorry, but what exactly do you – ’

  ‘This is a fabulous room – gosh it’s so – what’s the word I’m looking for?’

  ‘Big?’

  ‘Yes – but – I’m sorry – shall we sit down. I’ve got a few ideas.’

  ‘So you said.’

  ‘Well, that’s what the book’s for. Why don’t we sit down? Is it me or – gosh, that painting’s...It’s so – what’s the word?’

  They sat down. Oscar took the time to study her. Everything she wore – tights, skirt, shawls, jacket – was purple. As were her eye shadow and lipstick. She intrigued him; despite the trying air of clumsiness she also transmitted some essential enthusiasm which stopped him from losing patience with her. Her eyes flashed, winked, smiled; her lips curved, pouted, fluctuated; her skin blushed and glowed; but when she laughed, as she now began to, there was no sound – her body bent and her face distorted in the usual way, at laughter’s bidding, but there were no accompanying chuckles, sniggers, or giggles. It was the laughter of a mime artist. On recovering her powers of speech she murmured, ‘I’m sorry; you must think I’m a nut case.’

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Nothing. The thing is, I’m – I’ve had the most godawful terrible morning. You won’t believe what I’ve been through.’

  ‘I’m all ears.’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that. Only joking. Can I tell you about it?’

  He nodded slowly.

  ‘Well, first off, I was woken by a car alarm – three hours before I usually get up. Then I couldn’t get back to sleep. When I got in to work, after nearly being run over by a motorbike while I was crossing a one-way street I found out that all the costumes I’m hiring for a fringe show are going to cost me £1500 more than I’d been led to expect – so now I have to come up with a completely new design. Then I spilled coffee over my hand – see. Now it’s burnt, which will make it very hard for me to sew. Then – get this – on the tube a man tried putting his hand up my skirt. I screamed and no one did a bloody thing. Then, as I was walking along the King’s Road, a tramp went mad because I didn’t give him any money. So I’m in a bit of a state. And I wanted to make a good impression. Oh gosh.’

  ‘Would you like an alcoholic drink? As you can see I’m well stocked.’ Oscar gestured to the cabinet with a lean finger.

  ‘I’d love to, but I don’t think it would be right before lunchtime. Anyway I’m starting to calm down now. Would you like to take a – take a look at my book?’

  ‘Do I gather you’re here to dress me up then?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t you know? Mr. Rees said – ’

  ‘Never mind what Mr. Rees said.’

  ‘Well...anyway, I’ve got some photos here which give you a pretty good idea of what I’ve been chewing over. Now, for the guru look – ’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘The guru look.’

  ‘“The guru look”?’

  ‘Yes.’ She moved her left hand over her scorched right hand, in a protective impulse.

  ‘But – it’s not a “look” – I mean – you talk as if there’s a “guru look” being worn in Paris and Milan this summer. I’m sorry, but I really don’t think this is a very good idea.’

  Now she was blinking rapidly.

  ‘But couldn’t I just show you what I’ve got? I’ve been looking forward to showing you.’

  ‘Oh Christ, all right then.’

  ‘Well, I thought we might have you in something like this – ’ she flicked forward to a scanned photograph of a cassock, ‘but I have a feeling this is too obvious, too – what’s the word? – passé. On th
e other hand, with a bit of nipping and tucking at the sides we might make it look quite sexy; or there’s this jacket here – sorry about the photo – which is actually made, would you believe it, out of an antique Russian carpet, circa 1880; an oriental rug for a jacket, imagine that! Or, if you prefer, we might have you got up like the Bedouin in this cotton thobe, which, by the way – ’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, but this is just too depressing. How can I possibly say the things that have to be said when I’m dressed like this – it’s just too theatrical, like I’m an entertainer. No one would take me seriously – you can understand that – oh shit! The bath.’

  He darted off and wrestled with the tap. The water was just beginning to spill over the sides, at gravity’s instigation. Rolling back his shirt sleeve he pulled the plug out. When he turned round Cressida was standing next to him – a purple shock.

  ‘But what am I going to say to Mr. Rees?’ she asked in a small, pitiful voice.

  ‘Nothing. I’ll tell him.’

  ‘But I can transform you; I can make you look wonderful. I mean, not that you don’t already look wonderful, I mean – ’

  ‘I know what you mean, but I just think it’s inappropriate.’

  Oscar, fully expecting another persuasive maneuver was surprised when she just muttered, ‘You know, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you before. You’ve got integrity.’

  ‘Please don’t say that – I’ve got to have a bath.’ From the way he joined the two statements together it sounded like having integrity ruled out the possibility of bathing.

  ‘Do you want me to go?’

  ‘Well, yes. Ultimately. Actually – now would be good.’

  ‘I like the sound of your voice; it’s strong but at the same time supple. This is a fabulous bathroom. I’m so sorry you weren’t taken by any of my ideas.’

  ‘That’s all right; please, don’t take it personally.’

  ‘I hate it when people say that. How else am I meant to take it?’

  ‘Listen, I really have to do some work now, so thanks for the – ’

  ‘What about a drink? After all, you did offer. Then I’ll plod off, I’ll – ’ But her sentence gave way, her voice gave way, then she gave way. Her tears were so copious he thought she must have tear vats, not ducts, behind her eyes.