‘Rees, I’m quitting. I’m stopping. I’ve had enough.’
Rees clenched his fist and stared hard at it. Then he unclenched it, dumped the newspapers on a table and pulled out a cigar. He bit the end off and lit up. Then he took a seat and smoked quietly for a few minutes. Oscar paced about, waiting for an outburst which didn’t come.
‘Care for a cigar, Oscar?’
‘Okay.’
The formalities proceeded apace, Oscar took the cigar and then a seat opposite him, grateful of the buffer of the small table between them. They smoked in silence for a few moments.
‘Oscar, what did you mean just now? Did I hear you correctly?’
‘Please don’t get upset. The thing is...I have to stop this. None of what I’ve been saying is original; it’s all coming from another source. I’m not a philosopher, I’m not a guru, there’s just a void here’ – he stuck an index finger to his chest – ‘and I’ve been pretending. We all know I’ve never been to India; we all know I know nothing about Sanskrit. All I’ve ever done is a little bit of projecting and life modeling. The public have a right not to be made fools of.’
‘Oscar, don’t you think I know you’re a fraud? That’s what the hell we’ve been doing, you and I, creating a fake, a bit of forgery, except in this case the exhibit’s a man.’
‘I’ll offer the press a simple statement, and tell them I’m retiring.’
‘But you’ve only just begun.’
‘That’s true, but I can’t carry on like this.’
Rees puffed on the cigar thoughtfully, then gestured logically with it, going on evenly.
‘Oscar, may I ask, do you have something against me personally?’
‘No.’
‘Do you see me as a cold representative of the real world, a man who does commerce with the world and fits in?’
‘No.’
‘Do you resent me, have contempt for me?’
‘No, not exactly.’
‘Are you unhappy with the life I’ve given to you? Are you unhappy with power, influence; are you dissatisfied with a penthouse suite in Chelsea? Would you prefer your bedshit in Elephant and Castle? Do these gold taps and this triple bed fill you with distaste?’
‘No...well, in a way.’
Suddenly, with extraordinary violence, Rees lurched forward and stubbed his cigar out on the palm of Oscar’s hand. Oscar wailed in pain while Rees bawled viciously, ‘You fuck! If you quit now I’ll ruin you. I’ll see to it you don’t get a job as a lavatory attendant. You pathetic little shit. Is this the thanks I get for pulling you out of obscurity? I’ve spent thousands of pounds on this enterprise and I mean to recoup my losses. Not only that but I mean to make money, and continue making money out of you. Yes, Oscar, yesterday proved that you’re a goldmine, but I can’t be doing with your eccentricities. I haven’t fucked about concocting lies, telling stories, wooing editors and writers to see you bow out. I haven’t put you up in a luxury hotel and then glimpse success to see you quit. Oh, I see. It’s unethical, Oscar; that’s what’s troubling you. Look around you, shitface, there are no ethics or truth anymore. Grow up a little. There is no reality anymore; reality is what you choose to make up, what you choose to manufacture, or what I, Ryan Rees, choose to manufacture, to be exact. Get used to it; it’s too late to cry now. You should have said something at the time. Did you think I was doing all this for you out of the charity of my heart? Did you think I was trying to be a philanthropist? Did you think I was some kind of cretin?!’
He moved over and, in a single clean motion, smashed the center of Oscar’s face with his elbow as if shattering a pane of glass. Oscar toppled over, feeling excruciating pain well up in his jaw and nose. He squinted up at Rees from the floor. Rees had finally unveiled himself. And that mask-like face, those inert features – trained to register neither elation nor dismay – had changed beyond recognition. Up until that moment some part of Rees had been consistently edited, hidden from view. Now that part slotted into place and the ugliness of his soul leapt out.
‘You poor sick worm Oscar, you thought you could make a difference, you thought you could wake people up, well I’ve got news for you Oscar, people don’t want to be woken up, they’re nicely asleep, nicely tucked in to their crypts of technological deep freeze. Please don’t whisper too loudly as you walk past them, they might screech at you like ten thousand ravens. It’s too late Oscar, don’t you fucking get it? This is the way it’s going to be now Oscar, just these walking zombies everywhere, tuned into their fucking dead end lives which they will display and parade for the benefit of a non-existent jury, for ever and ever. That’s the way it’s going to be Oscar, everyone will be their own jailor and prisoner, spiralling ever downard into a well of technological and consumer madness. There will only ever be consumption from now on. The only thing that will have any meaning will be consumption. And you won’t be able to save them Oscar, you won’t be able to save them.’
Oscar felt a chill creep into his bones, a chill which went deeper than physical pain.
‘Oscar, you’re not going anywhere. You have an all-guns-blazing press conference at 2:45 this afternoon. Every paper in town’s going to be there. Waiting for me outside is my industrial-strength meathead Edwin; he’ll be staying and would be only too happy to pull your head off, so don’t even think about leaving. Remember, we’re on the tenth floor. Perhaps you’d care to jump. Why not? I expect you may even survive and end up a cripple; that would be good, why not; the crippled prophet – we could cart you around on a wheelchair; what a coup, a great image, the “mobile messiah.” We’d get the sympathy vote – a huge market there. Let me tell you, Oscar, if you try and escape the only place you’ll belong is nineteenth-century Italy in an opera house, singing as a castrato. You’ve got a job to do, and by God, you’ll be doing it. From now on daily appearances at the Verdant Theater. Seventy quid a shot. I think you’ll agree it’s a nice proposition. So wipe that adolescent mug of yours, clean up and take a shower. And don’t smoke anymore, Oscar, you sniveling little prick. Stick to words, you fucking ingrown hair. Bon voyage.’
Taking up all the papers, he let them unfold and crash all over him. Then he gave Edwin very specific instructions not to let anyone in or out of the room.
After a long time Oscar got to his feet painfully, wiping the blood spilling from his nose. It was all over the carpet. He staggered to the bathroom. He grabbed some toilet roll and pressed it against his nose, staring at his burned palm. He plodded toward the door and peered through the spy hole. He could see the well-built, unmoving form outside. He moved away and slumped into a chair and held his nose until the bleeding had stopped. Then his eyes came to rest on the gaudy drinks cabinet in the corner. Its contents awakened in him a desire for that alcoholic membrane, the membrane that, by misting over the ugliness of reality, alchemically made it more palatable.
So he downed a double whiskey. After a few sips he felt less shaky.
I can’t climb out of the windows. I’m up too high, I can’t walk out of the door.
The full desperation of the situation hit hard and he gave in to panic, hyperventilating. Oh, how he wanted to be with Najette! He had another double whiskey, which calmed him down, and then another which made him feel fine, and then another which made him shout incoherent words to Edwin who didn’t hear him through the sturdy door. Then, in a drunken stupor, he made a phone call.
‘Hello, is that the police? I’m in trouble.’
‘Yes, sir, what seems to be the problem?’
‘I’ve drunk too much.’
‘Who is this?’
‘No...no...sorry, that’s not the only problem...the main thing is...forget what I just said...I’m locked in...I’ve been forcibly detained in my own hotel suite...I’m calling from...where am I calling from?...this man...’
There was a clear, ominous click.
He had another drink and felt buoyed up.
‘This is Oscar Babel. I’m calling from the Grosvenor, and I’ve been
forcibly detained against my will, and I have no means of getting out...can you please come to my ass...assis...tance...please?’
‘Who is detaining you sir, and may we speak with them?’
‘A fat bear, at least a mile...long...a mile long...’
‘Sir, have you been drinking?’
‘Yes...no...no, of course not...please will you come to the Grosvenor Hotel...this is Oscar Babel and I am...have been...forcibly brained...drained...against my will...’
‘And who is detaining you sir?’
‘I’ve already told you, a fat bear...’
‘And is it currently residing at London Zoo, sir?’
The voice laughed merrily and then added, ‘Is there any coffee in the house, sir? I think that might be the best thing.’
Then – nothing.
Oscar’s mind was spinning, his body was going slack, caving in on him. He began to realize he was still a prisoner, and couldn’t do much about it. He couldn’t shift his brain back into sobriety, paralyzed as he was by alcohol. Something in the constable’s last words persisted. He tried to recall what they’d said to one another. Grosvenor Hotel...detained...bears. London Zoo. Then: a blank. Had I been drinking? Drinking? Coffee. That was it. Coffee. He needed coffee. He dashed to the phone, tripped up and landed painfully on his face. From where he was spread out supine on the floor, the walls and ceiling began a sickly dance.
‘Room service,’ he shouted. ‘Room service. Coffee. Coffee.’
He lay like that for some minutes, spinning. Then he managed to drag himself up and hobble into the bathroom and drink from the taps, cold water shooting all over his face and shirt. This revived him slightly. He wondered if he should try the police again but he couldn’t face it just then. He dragged himself into the shower and poured all the taps on and stood under the water which fired off in all directions, since he had not pulled the curtain across. He already noticed a dull ache creeping into his skull, the first intimations of a hangover which had arrived about eight hours ahead of schedule. He stepped out of the shower. Everything still swayed.
He slumped onto the bed and slept for about half an hour. When he woke he felt worse, shaky, feverish. He drank some more water and tried to collect his thoughts, tried to lift the fogginess from his mind. He gritted his teeth, forced his mind to engage.
He walked over to his portable cassette player and pushed a button. Bloch’s voice started speaking.
‘When I was little I would stare for ages out of the window, locked in my mother’s kitchen, as she busied herself with pots and pans. I would watch the rain and wonder why I had landed on this strange planet. The rain fascinated me, many hours watching it fall. But it was, as I think I’ve said, in this disconnected ramble, the dawn that really moved me. But what was the point of my moments of stillness? After all one lives in the world, not in a church, or in a work of art, or in lunar caves. I still have to learn to make friends with the noise, to accept it. I always had to pit my wits against the world. When you relinquish fear gifts come to you, blown in a serene wind hovering in your path. Of course I never did relinquish it; I never did accept life. And you do the same, Wormy.
But I want to continue staring through the windows, staring at the rain, thinking. So long as I can give the windows a friendly wipe from time to time to make sure I’m seeing clearly, or rather seeing through clarity.’
Oscar switched off the machine. He took some more water. His head was raging. He picked up one of the papers and tried to read.
Then he had an idea. He picked up the phone again and took a few deep breaths. He practiced a few words out loud. He sounded all right. He tried to ignore his head. He summoned up the voice for a great performance.
‘Hello, this is Oscar Babel in room 1008. I’ve just noticed my windows are absolutely filthy. It is vitally important they’re cleaned as soon as possible. In order to meditate I need an environment of clarity and cleanliness.’
On the other end of the line came the eager-to-please voice of the young female receptionist: ‘Of course, sir; I understand the importance of the matter. The people we usually employ could be with you this afternoon.’
‘That’s too late!’
‘Yes, sir, but the thing is – ’
‘Look, do you know who I am? I am Oscar Babel and I’m holding a very important press conference later this afternoon and I have to have a clear head and a clear window.’
‘Of course, sir; just a minute, sir.’
Oscar could hear some rustling and a voice raised in anger; then another voice came on the line.
‘Hello, Mr. Babel, this is Felix Speace, the deputy manager. Of course I understand the situation sir. The company we usually employ can be with you in under an hour. Don’t be alarmed when you see a cage outside the window. But I can’t understand how the windows got so dirty. They were cleaned only last week.’
‘Yes, well never mind about that, just see that they get here.’
While he waited he stuffed clothes, tapes, bottles of whiskey, and some chocolates into a suitcase, retrieved all Bloch’s tape recordings and shoved them in a plastic bag. He had another glass of water, and then another. Then he urinated for such a long time that his legs ached. He peered through the spy glass. The henchman hadn’t budged an inch. Wasn’t he getting bored?
He waited. Two anxious hours passed. He kept up a steady stream of phone calls but they did nothing to speed up the arrival of the window cleaners. He was terrified Rees would turn up before they did. But at last, at around 2:15, a cage, about two meters by three, materialized, slowly ascending as if on its way to heaven. Inside, there were two men in overalls and cloth caps. They beamed at Oscar as they began mopping and rolling, choosing to disregard the fact of the windows’ immaculate condition.
Oscar opened a large panel parallel to the faintly quivering cage. The latter was attached to a hydraulic arm connected to a truck in the middle of the King’s Road. The waves of fresh air instantly revived him and he wondered why he hadn’t thought to open the windows earlier.
‘At last, what kept you?’ Oscar asked the elder of the two, who was quite taken aback by Oscar’s bruised and battered face, now clearly revealed.
‘Sorry Mr. Bubble, there was more traffic than you could shake a stick at. Don’t worry; the windows’ll be as good as new.’
‘Never mind that now,’ Oscar said in irritation. ‘I’m getting in.’
‘What? No one’s allowed in my working cage, Mr. Bubble.’
‘I’m Oscar Babel and I’m coming down.’
He placed his things, having to stretch a little, into the cage, and began climbing out.
‘What are you doing?! The insurance doesn’t cover this! It’s not right! What are you doing?’
As the cage hovered, out of reach, Oscar made a fatal error: he looked down. Cars were speeding back and forth, red and blue boxes. He felt a tidal wave of nausea growing and thrashing around in his stomach. He threw up all over some people who were on their way to the Chelsea Cinema. He wiped his mouth on his shirt sleeve. He tried and failed to reach the cage.
‘Look, man, can’t you shift that thing a little?’ Oscar shouted in exasperation.
Finally the cage creaked along and Oscar slipped into it.
‘Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing,’ said Oscar. ‘Do any of you have aspirin? Christ, I need aspirin.’
The workmen stared at Oscar as though he were an alien being newly entering terrestrial society.
‘Come on, then, let’s go,’ Oscar snapped.
One of them, emerging from his stupor, pressed a red button and with a sudden jolt the cage began a wobbly descent. Oscar peered up to see if he could still make out the hotel suite. He could. He could also see Ryan Rees, who had apparently just entered. He saw that tight set of lips moving automatically. Oscar wished the cage would hurry up. But Rees was looking away and as he now went to inspect the bedroom and bathroom the cage dipped out of sight. Oscar breathed a single monumental sigh, and all the
tension in his body was gloriously dissipated. He jumped up and down, causing the cage to sway dangerously.
Upon arrival Oscar cried, ‘That was fun! Here you are.’
He handed each of the men a twenty-pound note, which they took in silence. (With that money they later bought too many drinks in a nearby pub and threw up all over the King’s Road.)
He was a dozen yards off from the main entrance; he could make out the inevitable swarm of pressmen waiting outside the revolving doors and the camped followers nearby, still hoping to have breakfast with him (or rather lunch now). He secreted himself into an alcove. Then, when a taxi suddenly appeared, he just managed to hail it in time, and yelled, ‘Over here, gentlemen,’ as he bundled inside. Some of the quicker journalists realized what was happening and started sprinting after it, but couldn’t muster the superhuman levels of speed to keep up. Meanwhile, the disciples were telling each other stories about Ouija boards and so remained sweetly oblivious to the departure of their savior.
Inside the cab he was ecstatic, his sights set on Najette and Egham. He could hardly wait to see her again. As they gained speed he took in the colorful streets of Chelsea, feeling safely displaced from prying eyes and the burden of performing. He smiled quietly at the developments of the last few minutes, developments which had catapulted him into another dimension, another place, dreamy and becalmed. Then he began to compose a simple letter of farewell.
*
From The Times
(4 September)
Goodbye Guru
From Professor Bart F. Walla
Sir, The decision by Oscar Babel to retire doesn’t come as a surprise, though it is regrettable. Perhaps we can assume he is going back to a more humble lifestyle, closer to the ashrams of India than the hotels of London. In other words he has probably decided to return to something like the world he moved in before. We should be grateful for the brief bursts of illumination he provided during the Imagures and his truncated speech at Kensington Gardens.
The Fabrications Page 39