In the gardens the crowds were jubilant. Stupefaction had given way to celebration. People were like champagne bottles popping open. The entwined bodies rolled and turned more freely around the cushions, freed by the crowds’ dispersal. One by one orgasms were detonated and the rhythm of the bodies subsided.
From the periphery of the circle Ryan Rees smoked a cigar and watched, mesmerized. Even he had never seen anything like this.
But now the police were threading through the circle.
They struggled to cover breasts and genitals with their helmets. They shuffled women into their coats awkwardly, their splayed-out arms and contorted limbs locked in resistance. Couples still welded together were asked, politely at first, and then aggressively, to separate and get dressed as they were under arrest. After a struggle, some pleas for compassion and Babel-esque love, they had no choice but to comply. A few remembered they were missing their shoes and had to recover them from the tents. They threw out designer names to convince their captors of the seriousness of the matter. But the constables’ ears were deaf to the cause of footwear and within a matter of minutes they – sheep herders – had gathered them all up and were leading them to waiting vans and cars. Oscar watched helplessly.
A few yards away an interview was being recorded for possible inclusion as a later news slot.
‘Can you tell us what happened here?’
‘Well, first of all I have to say: This is the most incredible night of my life. And I think Oscar Babel is right about vulnerability! We should all be showing our vulnerability! Vulnerability equals transparency which equals the absence of masks which equals more love and that is what this evening has proved: People are full of love but they never get a chance to express it, so eventually it just withers away and dies.’
‘But what we were seeing tonight, surely that wasn’t love; it was just lust.’
‘Well, maybe, I don’t know. So what? Well, it was real, wasn’t it? As the man says why should love be confined? It must be and is infinite, and I think what we saw tonight was a rejection of the social pressures which rule most people’s lives. We saw an eruption of energy, a glimpse of what life could always be like if we allowed it to be and...’
‘Thanks very much,’ said the pretty young reporter, who turned to her cameraman and, when she was sure her interviewee was out of earshot, snorted, ‘We won’t use that shit.’
She tried to get to Oscar, but he was still hemmed in by a thick wedge of people.
He was beginning to wish they would just back off, stop touching him and generally suffocating him. He kept saying, ‘That isn’t what I meant! That’s not what I meant! I just meant we should be more honest, more selfless...’
Rees, with the assistance of his stocky henchman Edwin (whose appearance created tremors of fear), was able to push through to him.
‘Isn’t there anything we can do about these arrests?’ Oscar asked him as a small woman tried to kiss his bare feet.
‘Afraid not, Oscar. But fear not, we’ll make the headlines.’
‘Is that all you can say? Is that all you fucking care about?’
‘No, it’s all the general public care about, remember?’
In a little while the police’s zealous activities had sobered up those who were still left, which was the greater part of the audience. Those who had not been arrested watched as more of their indecently exposing counterparts were chased – naked figures pursued by uniformed ones – and were caught and carted away. Sirens howled, their shrill screams impaling calm and grace.
After the police had gone things became a little calmer. The TV cameras stuck around in case of further developments.
And now the crowd broke up into various groups; some rushed back to the shoe tents and presented their tickets dutifully; others hung around and soaked up the atmosphere of receding anarchy; a little clan of smokers formed; others went for rambles around the gardens; some looked for squirrels. Now that the police had gone clans of hot dog vendors rolled in, with their handlebar moustaches (in whose environs it was easy to imagine dispossessed insects resided) and started peddling their wares, turning tubes of grease in their beds of grease, calling out, ‘Hot dogs, hot dogs,’ with abbreviated bravado so it sounded as though they were saying, ‘Hogs, hogs.’ From their lips moist cigarettes dangled and every now and then dollops of ash merrily joined the sizzling hot plates and their contents.
Meanwhile, outside the shoe tents, men were presented with transparent stilettos, women were handed black brogues. A mix-up of titanic proportions loomed into view.
And then someone suggested that everyone accompany Oscar back to Chelsea and the idea was received with great cheers of delight. And so, while the lights and stage began to be dismantled and the rubbish and cushions gathered, a procession began, a parade down the streets of Kensington. Kensington Gore presented no problems, but at Gloucester Road what began as a polite observance of street etiquette – a legacy of the recent chastening experiences, the crowd confining itself to the pavement – lapsed into a great splurge, as everyone took to the roads. The vastness of the numbers could not be accommodated anywhere else, it seemed, after the transition had been made, but this was only because people fanned out along the wider roads, thus giving the impression of an even greater multitude. The tide of traffic was stemmed by the forms of men and women, within whose protective compass Oscar strolled, as if already enshrined. Ryan Rees was having a ball, though as usual his face betrayed little sign of emotion.
Oscar felt light, so light he might will himself to rise and drift toward the moon.
The night was sweltering, a great vat of heat and humanity.
But just as the festive mood was reaching its apogee, the police popped up again. This time the vans and cars unloaded far greater numbers. Some were clutching riot shields, which, along with their helmets, made them look like androids. They re-grouped themselves with quiet efficiency and surrounded the crowds. Oscar clambered on top of one of those cars brought to a standstill and, ignoring the driver’s protestations, yelled into the crowd which immediately strained to hear him.
‘Offer gifts. Choose love over fear.’
As if by magic people began emptying out their pockets, giving all their available change to the slightly bewildered representatives of authority. Elsewhere the upholders of the law were poised, primed to attack and repel those who threatened to bring mayhem and small change to Kensington.
‘We mean no harm,’ Oscar shouted. ‘My people and I are walking home, that is all. We come and go in peace. Why should machines have right of way over people?’
Oscar strained to hear a ruddy-cheeked officer shouting in a savage voice, ‘You’re blocking the traffic. Move away or we’ll move you ourselves.’
Things were stretched tight.
Unfortunately in all the confusion Oscar did not hear what he said and carried on, hoping it would be all right.
‘My poor lost brother. None of us sees clearly, not even I. These people are committing no crime. We are humans walking the earth’s surface. Cars kill people and the air. Throw away these shackles. They interfere with heaven. There is only internal order, order of the soul. Why not embrace a higher reality?’
This last speech annoyed the policeman very much. He turned and gave an order and at once the crowds were violently driven back onto the pavements, thick truncheons ramming in and out of the air and every now and then bruising defenseless flesh. A few ribs were broken; stomachs were pounded. People were thrown into a whirlwind of movement and confusion. Some retaliated and threw whatever lay to hand at the helmeted men whom they now saw as tyrannical fascists. A shop window had something hurled at it; the glass went opaque and the alarm went off for the tenth time that day while elsewhere people were rammed up against cars – bodies pressed against bodies, bodies cushioning bodies, as people, in reaction to the machinery of oppression suddenly up and running, sought to protect each other, not to flee into the night but stand by their companions while the helm
ets raged and thrashed. From where he stood, balanced on his metallic throne, Oscar felt at once frightened and exhilarated. And humbled by this terrible and yet inspiring moment. And now, with frantic devotion, all the car horns began blaring. The resulting cacophony, born in and provoking panic, sounded like some atonal, experimental symphony as played by a hopelessly incompetent brass band. Oscar hopped down, thinking quickly. He marched blindly into the fray, walked up to one of the policemen clutching a loud speaker and planted a huge kiss on his cheek. The man reacted uncharacteristically. Not being of a tactile disposition, he would ordinarily, upon being kissed by a man, have beaten him to a pulp, but instead he just dropped his loudspeaker in stunned silence. Oscar picked it up and put his lips to it.
‘People, move off, look away! Let’s disperse, go back to the pavements! Don’t hit back. We’re unarmed, just be firm about showing our peaceful intentions.’
The words were enough to stem the tide of resistance, so preventing the situation from becoming truly desperate. People made it clear they were not about to fight back and the police were partially appeased. The crowds quickly rejoined the pavement, breaking up their bulk and in seconds normal human motion was resumed. The line that separates pedestrians and the road was restored. The police were left unanchored to any specific course of action, left hanging, as it were. A few of them felt disappointed. Oscar tried to smile benignly at the de-activated, uniformed figures. Slowly they filed back into the vans and in another minute these drove off, taking with them a handcuffed handful of those who had lashed out. The traffic was able to move finally and drivers heaved sighs of relief, pleased not to have to be claiming insurance for damage sustained to their vehicles. Oscar still retained a loyal band of about fifteen followers, propelled by euphoria, and they pushed on to Chelsea with a light, airy gusto.
Rees, who had been keeping a low profile, appeared alongside him and said, ‘Well-handled Oscar. That could have been very nasty.’
Oscar wanted to say, ‘Not as nasty as you,’ but he held back.
The little group advanced, coming up to the Fulham Road. Some of the women darted off to buy flowers from late-night stores, and offered him carnations and roses, which he accepted graciously, sending them into little shivers. Very soon his arms were swamped in bouquets and he had to siphon some off to perfect strangers approaching from the opposite direction, who as a rule either accepted them in surprise or refused them rudely.
A small girl, perhaps six years old, was playing a harmonica, in a little world of her own. People made way for her as she marched forward, like some emissary of a snowflake world of delicacy. The sight of her exquisite immersion in innocence caused Oscar’s mood to swing, this glimpse of purity making him momentarily – and vividly – perceive his fallenness. He turned to meet the gaze of his disciples; he wished they’d leave him now but they looked like they were here to stay, and he was loath to offend their feelings.
But by the time he found himself outside the entrance to the Grosvenor Hotel only four or five remained. The elation which had bound them together was gone, and now only awkwardness prevailed. Oscar didn’t really feel like inviting them up to his suite. Exhaustion had finally caught up with him, no longer held in check by adrenaline. He managed a weak smile and whispered, ‘Remember – no price tags. Unconditional love.’
One of the younger men murmured sweetly, ‘This has been the most amazing night of my life. We think you’re incredible.’
Oscar looked at him earnestly. Speaking slowly he murmured, ‘I’m really not, you know. I’m very unincredible. But, you’re right; tonight was pretty good. I’m sorry but I’m just shattered. I must say good-night.’ He walked slowly through the revolving doors, turned around – momentarily trapped in one of the compartments – waved, and then he was gone.
The disciples stood standing for a while, struck down by an unreasonable sense of loss. Then one of them suggested they camp outside the hotel and try and have breakfast with Oscar in the morning. Surely he wouldn’t be averse to the idea. So they settled down near the revolving doors while a girl darted off to an off-license for a few bottles of wine and some paper cups. The strange homage began and the extraordinary events of the night were discussed and dissected endlessly.
As Oscar entered the lobby, he spotted a herd of journalists hovering near the reception; they instantly rushed toward him with chaotic precision. Struck with a sudden idea he tossed the remaining flowers over their heads; they ducked and raised their arms clumsily, while he scrambled inside the elevator, jabbing repeatedly at the button for the tenth floor.
Inside it felt good to have eluded them. He rode up a couple of floors and then, without quite knowing why, pressed the STOP button. The lift shuddered to a halt. He took a few deep breaths. Here he was isolated; he could take a break from the madness. In that little cubicle he was safe. The events of the night already seemed dreamlike. He couldn’t quite accept what had happened. Just as he couldn’t quite believe that in a few hours he would be really famous – or really notorious. In a few hours the events of the night would be irrevocably associated with him, talked about and analyzed by London, perhaps by all Britain. Words would scurry down phone lines, e-mails would be sent, videos would be posted, signals would bounce off satellites, insane theories would get posted on the Internet. Technology, the matrix of technology, had thrust its legions of fingers into every nook and cranny of the country, and the globe. Even as the elevator sat suspended, the furnaces of the media would be roaring, its fires fanned by money and power.
He was in so deep, he was so enmeshed in this life which had scooped him up and claimed him. From that still point he perceived the events of the summer as misty, illusory. I’ve been spinning lies, And all the lies have set. They’re as tightly knotted as the steel wires which stop this lift from hurtling to oblivion.
For a moment he wished it would fall, and take him with it...
But at last he gave the order for the lift to clunk back into life and it rode up inexorably. The doors snapped open and he walked out. He slotted the key in the lock and turned it. As he stepped through he heard a voice issue from the darkness.
‘At last.’
He assumed his mind had invented the voice, a supposition that didn’t really surprise him, given the insanity of what had gone before. He reached for the light and was on the point of motioning toward the drinks cabinet when he realized he wasn’t hearing things. Because there was a person standing in the middle of the room.In the half-second during which his eyes took in the lithe form his mind was blank, his reaction non-existent; in the next half-second, despite the fact that his key had worked, despite the presence of his clothes and the familiar landscape before him, he told himself he was in the wrong room, and it was only after the voice spoke again, in the third half-second, saying, ‘You’ve been ages,’ that he realized he actually knew the person standing in front of him and that she was Najette.
The windows were all flung open and her violet dress rippled in the night’s breezes. He stared at her in silence. The faint sound of traffic reached the room, telling him life was going on as usual.
‘God, what – what are you doing here?’ he stammered.
She had a drink in her hand. She was grinning now – a grin which waged war on rules and regulations. There was not the slightest suggestion in her manner of self-doubt or hesitation: Her presence there was the most natural thing in the world. Oscar, on the other hand, was incredulous and confused.
‘You’re back from the picnic, then. Nice place you’ve got here. You must get a lot of light,’ she said, jabbing at the windows.
‘How – how did you get in?’
‘I explained the situation to the steward, gave him a twenty-pound note and a big smile.’
Though it was quite clearly Oscar, he looked alien to her. His face seemed flabbier, less expressive. As she studied him more keenly he struck her in the way a faded painting might have done.
‘What are you doing here?’ he manag
ed eventually.
‘Waiting for you.’
‘In the dark?’
‘Yes, I like it that way. Besides, the moon’s not far off; tonight it’s silver paint. Did you see the sky? It’s acting up.’
‘Why now? Why tonight of all nights?’
‘I’ll tell you after another drink. The immediate reason was listening to the radio, they were talking about you. So I got on a bus.’
He didn’t know what to say. He walked up to her very slowly.
‘I’m...I’m thrilled to see you.’
‘It’s good to see you too, Oscar.’
‘What are you drinking?’
‘Rum and coke.’
‘God, I’m whipped. I could use a drink. What a night.’
‘Tell me.’
‘Not yet; it’s still too close.’
He fixed himself a vodka martini. Then he fashioned another rum and coke for Najette, set it down on a side-table, and said, ‘That’s for you, when you’re ready.’ She watched him closely. He moved easily, like someone who finds calm after grueling labor.
They were standing quite close to each other now. He looked into her eyes. Her loose, ebony hair was looking longer than before, reaching down her back, her face as full of unruly beauty as his dreams and memories suggested.
She found a corner of the sofa to perch on. He set himself down at the other end.
‘Did you work out who you are yet?’ she asked.
‘Not yet.’
‘Then what did you work out?’
‘That everything you said about me was right.’
‘Maybe. I rang back a few minutes after I put the phone down but no one picked up.’
‘I was busy feeling terrible, I think.’
‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘You don’t know what happened tonight, do you?’
‘Weren’t you supposed to be making a speech or something?’
‘Yeah, a speech which led to an orgy which led to arrests which led to a procession which led to a riot. And I was at the center of it all. For a while it really did feel as if I was Jesus Christ. Now I see why rock stars need to take drugs, because when they come off stage they have to match the buzz of being adored on stage. Tonight was fatal; I was guzzling icing sugar but it had a pinch of arsenic inside, slowly killing me. Do you know what I mean?
The Fabrications Page 36