The Fabrications

by Baret Magarian

  When he looked up again the brunette was perched opposite his chair. She had an angular, gnome-like face. Her skin was riddled with acne which she had tried concealing with foundation and her eyes were slightly alarming, owing to the green contact lenses she sported.

  ‘Excuse me, but aren’t you Oscar Babel?’

  ‘Yes – so what?’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Oh, well...this and that. That’s quite a gathering you’ve escaped from. What do you want with me; I’m not a cowboy.’

  ‘I thought...I thought you looked kind of lonely.’

  He studied her face. Every now and then a devout gentleness surfaced in her eyes and for its duration he forgot about her contact lenses.

  ‘I didn’t think you drank,’ she said.

  ‘Where did you get that idea?’

  ‘Oh, just something I read about you in the papers.’

  ‘You shouldn’t believe everything you read.’

  His eyes were misting over.

  ‘Did something bad happen to you tonight? I’m a good listener; you can open up to me.’

  ‘I’m not sure if I can. I’m not at all sure myself what happened tonight.’

  Suddenly changing tack she cried with happy enthusiasm, ‘Wasn’t that thing in the park wild! I wasn’t there but I saw it on TV before someone pulled the plug! What happened there then? That was really bloody crazy, no?’

  ‘Oh yeah, that – human behavior – my words; Bloch’s words rather. An excuse, an excuse to sample what people have always hankered after. Like rabbits. I felt quite ashamed of all that. But I don’t think I can be held responsible.’

  ‘So how did you get to be a guru; I mean, how does anyone get to be a guru; is it just a process of – ’

  ‘Listen to me – what’s your name?’

  ‘Angelica.’

  ‘Listen to me, Angelica: I am not, nor have ever been, nor ever will be a guru.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘The image the media had of me, the public had of me, was false. It was all lies. I have no claim to special knowledge, to being a spiritual teacher. It was all a big, elaborate and costly confidence trick. And people bought into it. The real master is in a hospital a few miles from here, dying.’

  She tried to work out if he really meant what he said. His words were slurred, fatigue gushed from his eyes. But through the screen of drunkenness Angelica thought she could detect the ring of sincerity.

  ‘You mean that...you mean then that you’re just this ordinary, random – ’

  ‘Before I became famous, I was a complete nobody; I was a projectionist in Camden. That’s all. A man, Ryan Rees, you’ve got to hand it to him. His publicity machine should have won some kind of ultimate Bullshit Prize. In the end that bastard locked me up in my own hotel suite – do you believe that? After smashing up my face and stubbing out his cigar on my hand.’

  He held out his palm, where a faded, pinkish scar remained.

  ‘I could expose you. I could tell the world that Oscar Babel is a fake.’

  ‘Be my guest. I doubt if anyone would be interested. I’ve had my spell in the limelight. Some new bit of gossip, some new scandal, some new next big thing is already being cooked up somewhere, courtesy of...of whoever. You see, Angelica – pretty name that – you see, people like someone who wears the robes of authority, who looks important. But those bigwigs – most of the time, they’re just facades. Well, that’s all I was. A cartoon. The really important people, the people who count, they’re behind the scenes, off-stage. And all those people who write about you, they’re all under the illusion that they know you, know what’s going on in your head. But they haven’t a clue. How could they? There’s so much they don’t know about how I came to get to where I got. They wouldn’t believe it if I told them. No one would.’

  ‘I’d love to hear the story.’

  ‘It’s too long, far too long. I don’t want to talk about that now. I want – ’

  ‘Oh, tell me what happened. Just tell me how it started.’

  ‘It...it started with a cat.’

  ‘A cat?’

  ‘Yes. Let me finish. You have to understand. People aren’t interested in what someone’s actually saying; that’s why so much of what’s said gets distorted. They’re just interested in the game, all the noise and hype. If someone comes along, if someone comes along who makes a big enough noise, it attracts more big noise. The quality, the substance, it just...falls by the wayside. If you’re blessed with good looks, if you can string a sentence together and if you have powerful connections, bingo! Eureka! Just get yourself noticed, be seen at all the right places, it’s incredible; suddenly, somehow, you’re being talked about like you’re actually important. And the media – it’s crazy because it creates this thing and in the same breath it’s crucifying its creation. It’s like the media exists in this state of schizophrenia – it’s so big it doesn’t know what its other half is doing, so what’s getting trashed somewhere is being appraised somewhere else as gold dust. And the only thing you can do to stay sane is to get out of it. So I did. I got out, but now I’ve nowhere left to go.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, undoubtedly fascinated by the savage revelations and insights pouring out of him.

  ‘A few miles from here, in a hospital room a man is dying.’

  ‘Is that the master you mentioned? Is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘He was a friend. And now he’s dying. And I think...I think it’s because of me.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  She studied him earnestly, vaguely aware of having stumbled on something so outside her realm of experience that it turned all her pre-conceptions about the world on their head. As if she had had some terrifying brush with a powerful animal, after which she could no longer feel quite safe and secure again. And yet, despite this palpable sense of danger, she felt strongly drawn to Oscar and his damaged luminosity had already gone a long way toward bewitching her. She was baffled by him – by his outspokenness, by his heavy-duty seriousness, by his exquisite aura of suffering, by his being unlike any other man she had ever met in her life. Baffled and held.

  ‘Listen, Oscar, you see that guy over there; that’s Béla. He’s an Hungarian millionaire. He’s just got divorced and he’s decided to throw a wee party. We’re all going over to his place in a bit. Why don’t you come along?’

  ‘That’s terribly kind of you, but I’m in no fit state, so if it’s all the same to you – ’

  ‘Oh, go on. I’m really enjoying talking to you.’

  ‘No, listen, I’m, I don’t want to go to another party. I never know what to say at parties; everybody’s always so happy at parties.’

  ‘Look, you can be unhappy with me; you won’t have to talk to anyone else but me. Now, how does that sound?’

  She smiled sweetly. And in that instant something floated up and settled into the air between them and he recognized a familiar feeling of dread and excitement filling his stomach. She watched him with such attentive kindness that he did find himself tempted to do as she asked. But he didn’t know if he could sustain a conversation with her, despite her flattering interest in him.

  ‘I can’t, really; please understand. I’m sorry.’

  ‘All right then. Well, I tried. Can I at least have your telephone number?’

  He scribbled a made-up number, just to be rid of her, and at length she walked off. He watched her go with an expressionless face.

  But a few seconds later Béla himself had taken Angelica’s place.

  ‘Mr. Babel, tonight I find you under the weather, as the English say. The English language is so crazy. Full of meaningless expressions. He wants to have his cake and to eat it also. A slice of cake. To sell like hot cakes. My favorite: Shut your cake-hole. Why this obsession with cakes? Why lust after pleasure and do nothing about it? Why the muffling of meaning? Is it because the English cannot face
reality, find it too hard, and so disappear into apologies, stiff upper lips and chins that are up, the firm handshake? But I can see you want to be left alone. But isn’t it logical to assume you’d feel better at my party? I will invite you. And it would be impolite to turn me down. But first, before you decide, may I tell you a story?’

  Oscar was so taken by the unexpected acuity of his observations, his self-confidence, and his beauty and charisma, that he nodded slowly. Clearly he was in the presence of an incomparable host and raconteur. He was intrigued, despite himself.

  ‘A woman has reached middle-age and still not managed to marry. So she goes to see the wisest woman in the village for the answer to her problems. She tells her that the problem is not with her face, for it is beautiful; nor her body, for it is shapely; nor her character as it is good. The problem is that she must learn to cook. If she can cook she will ensnare a man. So the woman goes away and within a week turns herself into a marvelous chef. She makes men’s mouths water; she ravishes them with her secret recipes. But always after the dishes are piled away the man makes his excuses and leaves. So the spinster goes back to the wisest woman of the village. She tells her the problem is that she needs to play a musical instrument, to catch her man. The harp is the instrument for her. So the spinster takes lessons with the best teacher, paying him handsomely. And she plays beautiful melodies for the men and they listen, but always afterwards they make their excuses and leave. Weary now the spinster goes for a third time to see the wise woman. The problem is she has to learn to gamble, that gambling is something a man understands and responds to. So she learns to play poker, and to bluff. And the men are impressed with her, there is no doubt about it. And they make their excuses and leave. Finally the spinster, exhausted and miserable, goes to see the woman and says, “I have done everything you told me to do. I can cook, play the harp and gamble, but I still can’t catch a man.”

  ‘The woman says, “In all the time you have been coming to see me, did you not notice something important about me?”

  ‘The spinster asks, “What do you mean?”

  ‘“Something about my life?”

  ‘The spinster shakes her head.

  ‘“I am alone. I, too, lack a husband. If I knew the answer to your problem, would it be so? And if I knew the answer, I would not be able to tell you since I would be far away, in a dream.”’

  Béla folded his arms and produced a cigarette and lit it triumphantly, grinning at his companion.

  Oscar was strongly attracted by the story, though he was not sure of its real meaning.

  ‘Wasn’t it cruel of the woman to offer those suggestions then?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course not – that’s very naive of you. She thinks her suggestions have a real chance of helping her, and, after all, now the spinster is a more accomplished person. Now, you’ve heard my story; will you come with me, Oscar Babel?’

  Oscar said that he would.

  They all piled into a couple of waiting Mercedes; inside people experienced an irresistible urge to stretch out onto someone else and stay there. He tried to detach himself from this spread-eagling but couldn’t quite manage it and the women shoved against him provocatively, their untethered breasts bouncing in his face. He muttered small talk about the weather, which they completely ignored. But at last they arrived at a sumptuous house somewhere and as they all bundled out there was much laughter and horseplay. One or two of the cowboys decided to drop their trousers. Judging from people’s reactions this seemed to represent the height of comic invention. The company was ushered into the front room by a butler, and soon drugs, smoke and drink were circulating around it. Oscar was by now quite drunk and decided to try and find an anonymous corner to retreat into, where he might snatch some sleep. But Angelica, who was thrilled to find him there, latched onto him and continually asked him questions about his fame. When Oscar’s answers shrank to monosyllables she eventually gave up, leaving him snoring on some steps.

  Béla told endless stories and parables. He danced the tango with a Spanish woman, the gathered audience behaving even more adoringly toward him after his masterful display. He sliced a colossal watermelon in two with a sword, and everyone fed from its spilt red domes like dogs gathered around a couple of dish bowls. Afterwards people migrated into the kitchen to make gazpacho laced with marijuana. Shrill, unending, lunatic laughter ensued. Then an albino made an egg vanish; a Scot played the bagpipes badly (though most people thought that even when played well the bagpipes didn’t exactly produce an agreeable sound); a heavily pregnant woman juggled with nine large candlesticks. Afterwards these were lit and Béla proceeded to hypnotize a young man with an earnest face. He turned into a neighing, snorting donkey, wandering around on all fours, smiling stupidly whenever his master fed him non-existent berries from the palm of his hand. Then, when prompted the donkey confessed to its fondness for dressing up in women’s underwear. The episode went down very well, but on recovering his senses, the young man locked himself in the toilet and wasn’t heard from again. By now most people were mind-numbingly drunk. At around four in the morning a man blessed with sobriety and garish red hair presided over a seance and petrified everyone with his ventriloquistic sleights of hand, revealing finally that the unearthly wailing of the soul trapped in hell was coming from his own vocal cords.

  Throughout Oscar slept fitfully, feverishly.

  He was awakened at around five-thirty by Angelica. He looked and felt terrible.

  ‘Come on,’ she whispered. ‘We’re going.’

  ‘What? Where?’ he stammered.

  ‘Béla’s hired a hot air balloon; we’re going to take a sky-ride. Come with me, Oscar Babel.’

  She very quietly took his hand and kissed it.

  Béla saw in the balloon trip a happy emblem of liberation from his wife. He saw the act of rising above the earth to be a final – and necessary – way of symbolizing his release from her clutches. That was why he had organized the trip, to round off the evening’s revelry. They had to drive to Tower Bridge where hot air balloons flying over London took off from a small, deserted field nearby.

  It was seven in the morning when they finally got there. The sky was relatively clear and the sun glared coldly. No sound punctured the crepuscular silence. The bridge, its intricate design standing out above the Thames, looked sombre and impressive. In the distance the city was beginning to come alive as brokers made their first phone calls. The outline of St. Paul’s Cathedral was visible from between the cluster of grid-like buildings and cranes and office blocks, an arc of elegance in the messy rectangles of concrete.

  A group of men in green overalls was busily assembling the balloon. Most of those who had decided to come along for the outing were currently having second thoughts. In the end only three people felt well enough to go up, despite Béla’s outraged remonstrations. He insisted they were all missing a wonderful opportunity – that the view would cure them of their hangovers in one fell swoop, that up there they would be princes taking tea with the gods. But even his baroque rhetoric failed to change anyone’s mind. So the only passengers apart from Béla were Giselle, a quiet, shy woman clutching a shriveled teddy bear protectively (her mascot), Angelica (who had replaced her green contact lenses with red ones and now looked rather frightening), and Oscar, who was finally waking up.

  He watched as the nylon canvas of the envelope was inflated slowly, a wicker basket, large enough to contain a dozen people, at its end. The expended heat was stupendous and he felt it pass through him even from a dozen yards off. He was surprised to find how big the thing in front of him was growing by the second, assuming a swollen hemispherical shape. Finally it reached its full length of a hundred feet. It hovered there, bobbing imperceptibly in the wind. A cloud passed sluggishly, blocking out the sun. He studied the horizon of buildings and geometric patterns in the distance: London, still sleeping, a million embryos in a concrete womb. Ravens flew past in a flock, then vanished into the secret places only they knew how to reach.
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  Then it was time to get inside. The pilot hoisted himself in first. Once installed he helped the others. Inside, the heat was greater than ever.

  The ballast was removed by the men in overalls, piece by piece. Oscar glanced over to the bridge: a last appraisal before they became airborne. The bridge was deserted, but when he looked again a second later he could make out two men making their way across it. They seemed to be in a fantastic hurry, presenting a picture of hysterical mobility, arms and legs virtually shooting off their bodies. In a moment of horror Oscar recognized Ryan Rees, earphones plugged into his ears, his face disfigured by fury. They were dashing across the field now. Oscar noticed that he was gripping the sides of the basket, not out of a desire to feel secure, but with panic and fear.

  ‘Stop the balloon!’

  Rees ripped the earphones out of his ears. Bits of wax were jettisoned.

  ‘Stop that balloon!’ he bawled, slightly ridiculously.

  ‘Who the hell is that? What does the big oaf want?’ Béla demanded.

  ‘He wants me, my blood,’ said Oscar.

  ‘Well, he shan’t have it,’ Béla growled magisterially. Oscar found this reassuring.

  Rees’ voice, shouting incoherently, was drowning in the wind. His companion stumbled and tripped onto the grass. Rees tripped over the inert body. From his prostrate position Rees’ arms stretched and reached, the fingers splayed out. He picked himself up and advanced unsteadily, cutting an absurd figure.

  But he was too late. The balloon had started to rise.

  As Rees watched, the triumphs of the summer raced through his mind but brought him nothing but pain. A frightful pain he could not fathom. Then he was back at school, again, but long before his reign had started, back to a virtually buried, erased time. He was a sickly, flimsy seven-year-old, having the sand kicked in his face, bawling and screaming. He tried to resurrect his famed impassivity. But it was no good and as he looked on, impotence spilled out of his every pore.

  As the balloon climbed, Béla, his body swaying with anarchic joy, boomed, ‘I’m a free man! Free! Free! Free! Free! Free!’