The Complete Enderby (87 page)

‘Don’t give us that. There’s a tone of voice that grates on me, pardon me Laura. We’re your one bastion against the communist takeover. So don’t knock.’

‘I certainly will not,’ Enderby promised.

‘There you are again,’ the lawyer cried. ‘It’s the tone of voice.’

‘I can’t help my bloody tone of voice,’ Enderby countered with truculence. ‘I can’t help being a bloody Englishman.’

‘Who,’ said Mrs Allegramente, ‘is oppressing the Irish.’

‘Ah, hell,’ Enderby said. He would have said more, but at that moment the son Philip lurched in, probably stoned. He clearly reserved articulacy to his pianoplaying, for what he said, though long and partially structured, made no sense. But his mother understood him, for she said:

‘I’ve no intention of marrying him, do you hear me, Philip? I’ve no intention of dishonouring your dear father’s memory.’ Enderby nodded at this apparent Hamlet situation. He did not however understand why this Philip, his gaunt stoned face encandled and dramatically shadowed, should look menacingly at him, Enderby. ‘He takes you for someone else, Mr Elderly,’ the mother explained. ‘Tell him that you are not who he thinks you are.’

‘I am not,’ Enderby said loudly, ‘who he thinks I am.’ And then, in Duchess of Malfi tones, ‘I am Enderby, not Elderly. I am Enderby the poet.’

This quietened the son down somewhat. He grabbed himself a hunk of the carved goo from the table centre and left noisily ingesting it. ‘Good boy, good boy,’ the academic said in relief.

‘I think I’d better go now,’ Enderby said, getting up.

‘Oh no, oh no,’ Mrs Schoenbaum cried in new distress. ‘Mrs Allegramente has to convince you.’

‘I’m already convinced,’ Enderby said. ‘There is a Happy House far far away.’

‘
Not
far away,’ Mrs Schoenbaum cried. ‘Let’s start, Mrs Allegramente.’

‘Nothing will come through. Too much British scepticism around.’

‘Let’s have him telling us to get out of Northern Ireland,’ Enderby suggested nastily.

‘You see?’ Mrs Allegramente said to Mrs Schoenbaum.

‘Be good,’ pleaded Mrs Schoenbaum. ‘Promise to be good, Mr Elderly.’ And she got up. Enderby muttered something about Mrs Allegramente’s better being good, but this was not heard in the chairleg skirring. He followed his hostess and the others out. Their hostess led them to a small chamber off the hallway. The son was to be heard back at his piano, playing a single monodic line, one hand evidently busy with his goo. The black servant in the white coat nodded balefully at everybody, not specifically Enderby. He too seemed stoned. The small chamber was brilliantly lighted. There was a round table in the middle, four chairs of a dining order, a kind of throne for, presumed Enderby, Mrs Allegramente. ‘No chicanery,’ the academic said to Enderby. ‘All above board. I have participated in previous sessions.’

‘Is that so?’ Enderby said. ‘What is your ah specialization?’

‘Pardon me?’

‘You do what?’

‘I run a course in theosophy. Saul Bellow is visiting us at the moment. He is deeply interested.’

‘My kind of town.’

‘Pardon me?’

‘Be seated, all,’ Mrs Schoenbaum invited. ‘You will have the small lamp, Mrs Allegramente?’ There was such a lamp on the table, a bulb of low wattage with a parchment shade. Enderby asked the theosophist in a low tone:

‘Is that human skin?’

‘Pardon me?’ But Mrs Allegramente was already on her throne, breathing from the diaphragm. Look at the bloody man filling himself up with air. That had been said of AE, George Russell, prototheosophist, in sceptical Dublin. High on a throne like this, ready to speak of the maharishivantatattarara or some such bloody thing. Mrs Schoenbaum, very eager, turned out the bright main
light
. Shadows, shadows and shadows. She put Enderby as far away as possible from Mrs Allegramente or whatever her bloody name was. She said:

‘We all join hands.’

So Enderby had the dry bones of the academic on his left and the soft supermarket turkey breast of the paw of his hostess to the right.

‘We may have to wait quite a while,’ Mrs Schoenbaum whispered to Enderby after quite a while of waiting. Enderby nodded that he understood, quite a while, feeling, with a sensation of faint horripilation, that it was colder than it ought to be. Mrs Allegramente encouragingly groaned. Enderby realized he had neglected to micturate for several hours. His bladder, encouraged by the cold and not giving a damn whether or not it was astral, happily, like a dog, pawed its owner for walkies. Mrs Allegramente went: ‘Oooooooh.’ There was a sound in the room like the tearing of paper. Enderby did not like this. His bladder importuned. Mrs Allegramente said:

‘Is there anybody there?’

There was a more irritable papertearing noise and then, after a minute or so, a hell of a knock on the wall behind Mrs Allegramente.

‘One knock yes, two knocks no?’

There was another hell of a knock, though as it were structured like a monosyllable.

‘Is that William Shakespeare?’

‘I’m getting out of here,’ Enderby said, hearing the wall banged in a sort of proud affirmation.

‘Shhhh,’ went panting Mrs Schoenbaum. Mrs Allegramente asked:

‘Have you a message for anyone?’

There was no reply. ‘Bloody nonsense,’ Enderby muttered. And then he heard knocking on the underside of the table itself. There were four swift knocks, then a pause. There were six swift knocks and a longer pause. There were four swift knocks, then a pause. There were six swift knocks and a longer pause. There were four swift knocks, then a pause. There were six swift knocks and then silence. The damned table all the time tried to leap, but the spirit fist was not strong enough to raise it. ‘Oh Jesus,’ Enderby muttered. Mrs Allegramente could be heard breathing with decent, or
non
-spirit-raising, shallowness. ‘No more?’ Mrs Schoenbaum dared to ask. They all broke hands. Mrs Schoenbaum went to flood the room with decent brightness.

‘It had the feel of a somewhat enigmatic message,’ the academic said as they all rose. Enderby said:

‘Pardon me. I’m afraid I have to –’ The lawyer grimly pointed.

Enderby found a small and overdainty lavatory off the hallway. He pounded his load out furiously. Enigmatic message his arse. His arse, thus invoked, spoke. 46 46 46. If that wasn’t bible-amending Shakespeare, who the hell was it? Enderby did not like any of this one little bit. He wiped his penis on a handy face towel. Poor sod, proud of his contribution to the King James psalms. And now these New English Bible bastards had cheated him of his major triumph. Enderby pulled a lever which flushed the bowl, and, while it flushed still, left. Mrs Allegramente was waiting for him outside the door. She said:

‘The message couldn’t be clearer. It was
QUIT ULSTER QUIT ULSTER QUIT ULSTER
. Even you must have gotten the message.’

‘Oh hell,’ Enderby said, zipping up his not wholly zipped fly, ‘it could have been
KEEP ULSTER
or
KILL ULSTER
or
EGGS BOILED
or
BEER BLOATS
or anything. But it was him all right. And you don’t know why, do you, eh?’ He wagged a finger at her. ‘Leave him alone is my advice. Don’t meddle. Good friend for Jesus’ sake forbear, remember that.’ Aaaaaargh. That was his stomach abetting. ‘I’m getting out of here,’ he said. And to Mrs Schoenbaum, who now hovered: ‘I’d better telephone for a taxi.’

‘Irving here,’ Mrs Schoenbaum said, ‘will drive you. It’s on his way.’ The lawyer beamed unexpectedly and said with overmuch cordiality:

‘Well, sure, delighted.’ This seemed to mean to Enderby that he would be dumped somewhere, having first been pistol-whipped, in the heart of flat Indiana. Enderby said:

‘Thanks, but I don’t want to cause trouble. A taxi will be fine.’ He felt, obscurely, that he was involved in the causing of a deeper trouble than any there yet realized or, with such cultural equipment as they possessed, could ever realize.

THE COMING OF
April Elgar was harbingered by Enderby’s coming onto the top sheet of his Holiday Inn bed. So, at least, he was to surmise. The lavish ejaculation was unwonted. It woke him at the useless hour of 4 a.m. Remarkable in man of your age, Enderby. He had not been dreaming of anything very specific. Later he was to see this as confirmation of the power of a woman he had not even seen and knew to be, which was pretty far away, in Miami, Florida. But she was having her bags packed for Terrebasse, Indiana, or rather for the Sheraton Hotel in Indianapolis, she being above Holiday Inns. And she was shooting out powerful erotic rays.

Holiday Inn bedrooms always had two beds, a thoughtful provision. Before getting into the so far untouched dry one, Enderby tugged the wet sheet free of its anchorage and then wondered what to do with it. Leave it to dry naturally and it would dry crinkled, announcing to the world of gossipy chambermaids the poverty of Enderby’s sexual life. So he soaked the defiled patch in hot water and stretched it over a flat matt heat source. Then, naked as he was, he put on his glasses to examine himself with some care. There was no prevision in this: it was the marginal response to a marginally erotic situation, to wit an unpurposed seminal discharge. But there was also the matter of a long bathroom mirror. In Tangiers he had only a round shaving glass. Here you were cordially invited to look at yourself all over, no extra charge. He looked with interest at a naked man with spectacles on and no teeth in. This latter deficiency he fumblingly rectified. Better, but how much better?

There was fat there, but it was not slugwhite fat. He had got brown in Tangiers. Occasionally he climbed to the roof of La Belle Mer to sun himself. The sun was there and might as well be used. Bronzedness had a flattening effect: the Enderby that looked with interest and even faint approval out of the mirror was a less
three
-dimensional Enderby than the one he had occasionally seen before in the old days, that was to say, in other bathrooms. The encroaching baldness he did not approve. There were one or two members of the troupe who wore cowboy hats all the time, and one who wore a kind of Balaclava helmet of leather with earflaps. But they all had ample uncombed hair beneath. There was a shop near to the hotel with toupees in it. There was also, in Enderby’s suitcase, a flat tout’s cap with a peak that went back a long way and whose provenance was now very vague. The cook Arry he had known so long ago? Cut out a art shairped croutong with a art cootter. For piling on damson jelly as an accompaniment to joogged air. Enderby removed his spectacles and dug the cap out. Naked, he squinted at himself with the cap on. Anything went down all right in this mad America.

Enderby turned up at the theater next morning but one in the tout’s cap and an overcoat of faded plum. He removed the overcoat to reveal blue linen trousers, an open yellow shirt with crimson foulard and a seagreen cardigan. He wore no spectacles. He could see enough, and some things he did not wish to see – the face of Toplady in full definition, for instance. He had to read a new scene to Toplady. There was no music in it really, so Silversmith did not have to be there. Before Will’s sexual triumph following
Richard III
it had been decided to bring in brief homosexuality, espionage, violence and frightful death, in other words Christopher Marlowe. This was to scare Will and make him pack his and Hamnet’s traps and ride back to Stratford, but then the Earl of Southampton was to appear and tell him not to. That would lead to Dark Lady and Southampton taking her from Will and her getting mixed up with the revolutionary party led by Essex. Toplady sat behind his desk apparently wondering at Enderby’s new appearance while Enderby read aloud. First, though, Enderby sort of sang.

‘There will we sit upon the rocks

And see the shepherds feed their flocks

By shallow rivers, to whose falls

Melodious birds sing madrigals.’

‘Oh, good that, you must admit,’ says Marlowe. ‘Will Shakespeare here could not do as well.’

‘Give me time.’

‘Give us all time,’ says Frizer.

‘Amen,’ says Skeres. ‘But for some the time is ordained to be short.’

‘Ah,’ says Marlowe, ‘very mystical and occult.’

‘All may be clarified in time,’ says Poley. ‘Though not, of course, to everyone. You have worn a good cloak, Kit.’

‘From the best tailor,’ says Marlowe.

‘I mean,’ says Poley, ‘the figurative cloak of your pretty songs about shepherds, and your loud brawling stageplays and your even louder atheism that the Privy Council chooses to ignore.’

‘Ignore?’ says Marlowe. ‘I have been up before the Privy Council but recently. A matter of some blasphemous papers found in Tom Kyd’s rooms. You know Tom Kyd, Will?’

‘He wrote one good play,’ says Will. ‘
The Spanish Tragedy
.’

The three men titter, and Will wonders why. Skeres says:

‘That is not too apt. Much depends on what happens in the last scene. It is too soon to talk of the Spanish tragedy.’

‘Come, come,’ says Frizer, ‘this is intended to be a merry meeting. Give me the lute and I will sing you a song, though not about passionate shepherds.’ He takes the lute that Marlowe has been absently plucking and sings: