The Oeuvre

by Greg James

  The door was painted a plain brown that had become scratched and scraped off in various places. There was no handle, merely a hole where the door’s handle should have been mounted – it was through this the sound of music was escaping from the room. Rossiter made a face as he dug a tissue out of his jacket pocket, and wrapped it twice around his fingers before slipping them into the hole so as to pull the door open.

  Inside, the light was dingy; barely illuminating half a dozen chairs irregularly placed before a small stage that had been erected against the far wall of the room. There was a threadbare backdrop of peeling tinfoil stars and crudely-painted rainbows. Only three of the chairs were taken but Rossiter, for some reason, felt better about staying by the door and watching from there rather than seating himself. Better, safer, it amounted to much the same.

  The three seated figures were in silhouette but he could see that one was a largish man with a slumped posture who seemed to be whispering repeatedly to himself. Leaning forward a little and concentrating, Rossiter was able to catch, “… Jonathan …”

  The second and third figures appeared to be a couple; youngish, he guessed, by the look of their clothes; smart casual rather than anything too outré. More likely to be trying for a baby in the next few years than hitch-hiking across Europe as he understood many liked to do before settling down to a mortgaged life in suburbia.

  An unusual threesome, he thought, and a poor audience for whatever was about to take place. The music continued to play at a lower volume than the large man’s whispering – Rossiter couldn’t think how he’d been able to make it out at the bottom of the stairs. It was a rather spare composition of three to four melancholy notes falling in a minor key – vaguely reminiscent of Mozart’s Moonlight Sonata in tone, but he was no expert on Classical music, or indeed anything at all.

  Rossiter waited in the dark of the room until his feet began to get tired and, when he decided about leaving, the music stopped; the lights appeared to brighten by a small degree and a man stepped out onto the stage. He wore a checkered trilby, an oatmeal jumper, and sported a patchy, unkempt beard. He seemed to retreat a little from the audience after realising he was onstage and moved like a man just recovered from a heavy night of drinking. There was no microphone and the man had no talent for projection as he spoke to the audience. The seated three leaned into his words, attentive disciples, whilst Rossiter resisted the urge to move closer in favour of his sanctuary in the shadows.

  Despite not hearing what the man was saying, and observing little more than occasional nods of understanding from the seated audience, Rossiter surmised that this man was not the entertainment they had all been waiting for. He was merely le compère, and one of the worst he had ever witnessed. Maybe it was time to go home now, but there was the chance that Justine had not left as he’d hoped she might. The woman may still be lingering downstairs in the bar, waiting to catch him as he exited.

  I’d better stay for the duration, Rossiter thought, tedious though it will undoubtedly be.

  With his arms folded sternly against whatever was to come, he watched the compère bow, stand briskly upright and then spread his arms wide before stamping his right foot three times against the floor.

  The lights went out for a heartbeat; when they came back on the compère was nowhere to be seen. In the ensuing quiet, Rossiter sighed harshly and earned a glance from the largish man. It was too gloomy to tell whether the look had been critical.

  It was then a most peculiar apparition came out on stage; short and skinny, dressed in a wing-collar shirt, a waistcoat with various accoutrements hanging from it and a pair of shabby trousers with a tartan waistband. A chair and a stool had materialised onstage somehow during the brief darkness and the performer, for that was who this must be, moved towards them. Rossiter wondered at how the performer was able to divine the whereabouts of the chair and stool because, as well as a rather battered top hat, the face was obscured. The performer was wearing a bag of white linen over their head and there were no holes Rossiter could make out through which they might see.

  The performer sat down on the chair, which was very rickety, and put their feet up on the stool. They stretched their legs out and pointed their toes to the sky – male or female, the feet were quite smooth, hairless and bare. Finally, from a waistcoat pocket, the performer produced an apple and went into final pose, cradling it in their cupped hands; seemingly staring at it, enraptured, even though it was obvious they could not see it.

  After a few minutes passed, the compère returned to the stage, cleared his throat and began to walk towards the meagre audience. There was no air of threat but Rossiter couldn’t help moving further back from the unexpected approach until he was touching the wall. He wanted to reach for the door handle and let himself quietly out but didn’t have the nerve to grope for it in the dark. He couldn’t take his eyes from the performer on stage, much as the same androgynous figure could not look away from the apple it was cradling in its small, pale hands.

  The compère had his hand on the shoulder of the largish man and was talking to him in earnest. The largish man was nodding vigorously and trembling a little. A moment later, he got to his feet and took steps towards the stage. In the mild light illuminating that part of the room, Rossiter could see the largish man had an even broader, wilder, and darker beard than the compère – and eyes that would not catch the light. There was a feeling of size and weight about him that had been concealed when he was seated; revealed, it was unsettling. His brows were knitted in a permanent, deep frown and he had a kind of underbite where the lower lip and lower teeth protruded. Rossiter realised that he had moved away from the wall and closer to whatever was about to transpire. It was as if the largish man conveyed a gravity, drawing him into the fold. For this reason, he heard the next words that the compère uttered sotto voce, “In your own time, Mr Williams.”

  The largish man, Mr Williams, nodded and tried to smile, unfortunately. He moved onto the stage with care, each step softer than the last. The closer he came to the seated performer, the more he seemed to fear that a heavy step might make him, or her, shatter into pieces. And Rossiter, no longer caring for the sanctuary of distance, took a seat with the remaining two members of the audience.

  Mr Williams was standing behind the performer now, looking then not looking, then looking again to the compère. The latter made a gesture and this seemed to relax the largish man who raised his hands and reached down towards the performer. From the shape he was making with his fingers, Rossiter thought Mr Williams meant to strangle the fragile creature. He gripped the seat of his chair, about to stand up and call out – when the largish man did something entirely unexpected.

  His hands dove lower, reaching for the ribcage of the performer, and there proceeded to dig into the cloth-covered skin and gently tickle the hooded androgyne as one might a young child. There was no violent movement in reaction as one might expect though Rossiter fancied that he saw the linen over the performer’s face crease and undulate as if a concealed mouth were drawing quicker breaths. Mr Williams went on with this play for some minutes and it was plain to see that he was weeping as he did, and his husky voice carried across the room in a manner that the compère could not compete with. As when he had been sitting alone, he repeated a singular word, or rather a name, over and over again, “… Jonathan … Jonathan … Jonathan …”

  When he was done, Mr Williams withdrew his hands and left the stage with as much care as he had entered upon it. He did not return to his seat. He merely exchanged his unfortunate smile with the compère and departed, passing by Rossiter rather brusquely.

  Rossiter looked after him as the door closed in the man’s wake before returning his eyes to the stage, where the performer sat looking as undisturbed as when they’d all sat down.

  What on earth was this, he wondered, what am I a part of here?

  As he pondered, the compère approached the young couple who sat a few chairs away. This close, Rossiter overheard some of what w
as exchanged between them, “Mr and Mrs Devoy, you understand the agreement. As you like it. In your own time.”

  Husband and wife looked at one another, held hands, kissed, rose to their feet and ventured onstage. They were less careful and respectful than Mr Williams had been and, before they reached the performer’s demesne, they were on hands and knees moving in a way untamed. Rossiter thought their faces were becoming more than slightly feral in the dim light. They stopped at the stool upon which the performer’s bare feet rested; toes still pointing to the sky. The soles were remarkably unblemished for an adult, Rossiter thought, and stopped himself as his mind wandered to what the rest of the performer’s body might look like.

  He watched as the Devoys begin to lick and gnaw upon the performer’s exposed feet. Their tongues eagerly laved the soles until they glistened, also slithering in between the toes, as well as thoroughly wetting the dorsum pedis and ankle bones. They suckled upon the toes in a manner that put Rossiter in mind of ravenous new-borns. Again, as with Mr Williams, the performer seemed to barely respond and this seemed only to increase their frenzy. Their ministrations became steadily more and more abrasive until Rossiter felt sure they would draw blood before long. Again, he found himself gripping his chair in readiness to certainly intervene.

  And again, the spectacle came to an end before this was necessary. With Mr and Mrs Devoy crawling away on their hands and knees as whatever energy had possessed them bled away, exhausted. The further they were from the stage, the more they resembled their domesticated selves. They were on their feet by the time they reached the half a dozen chairs and walking calmly in arm in arm as they left. Mrs Devoy spared the compère a flirtatious wave of her manicured fingertips. Three had departed and three yet remained.

  Rossiter looked to the stage and its still denizen, then to the compère. “Is that it? Is the show over?” he asked.

  “Are you not still here?” the compère asked.

  “But I haven’t paid.” Rossiter said.

  “This is not that kind of arrangement.”

  Rossiter frowned at the use of the word arrangement. It seemed out of place.

  “I’m not here for an arrangement.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “I was curious.”

  The compère smiled pleasantly, “Then be satisfied. Our friend is waiting.”

  Rossiter looked to the stage, to the performer, and felt how tired his arms were getting from gripping the chair. He had to close his eyes to will his fingers to let go, and make a conscious demand again for his legs to take his weight as he stood up.

  He swayed a moment and thought of Mr Williams; the respectful giant, rather than the uncouth newly-weds, as he undertook his tentative journey onto the stage. He felt uncomfortable and the lights were bright. Much brighter than he thought they would be. It must be the heat from the lights getting to him. Looking back, he could not perceive his chair or the door – there was a shroud of darkness over everything. The ghost of a headache clutched at his skull and made his stomach turn with a silty rush of nausea.

  All he could see ahead of him was the performer. All he could see of the performer was the bare hands and naked feet, and neither told him whether this was man or woman – and the apple was still cradled as it had been at the beginning. The skin of the fruit was fresh, shimmering, and ripely-pebbled with natural reddish colour. He’d loved pink ladies as a child. Rossiter felt an overwhelming urge to snatch it away, take a bite, and feel the cool, nostalgic sweetness on his lips and chin. He was standing by the performer and could feel utter stillness there. If he reached down, would he be able to feel human warmth and a pulse in the performer’s wrist? He remembered Justine grabbing his hand and pushing it against the warm swell of her breast earlier in the evening.

  Rossiter breathed on his hands, hoping to warm them though he did not try to touch the performer and detect a pulse. Instead, he lifted the hood just enough to find the lips beneath. They were pale and without make-up; secretless yet not telling. They were masculine and feminine in perfect balance. He kissed those lips and felt a small, hot tongue flicker out and touch its wetness on his own. The moment ended and the performer’s hood fell back into place. Rossiter didn’t want to see the rest – there was no need. The show was over for him. He left the stage and gave a nod without a smile to the compère.

  At the door to an upstairs room, he turned and looked back at the stage before leaving and saw what he’d expected to see. It was already empty, dusty, utterly vacant, and the tinfoil from the tattered stars was slowly coming away.

  The Face in the Picture

  Sometimes, it can be hard to be the person you are.

  Though I suffered no trauma as a child; growing up I was possessed by the sense I was meant for lesser things than others. It was a feeling as much a part of me as my skin and bones – something I could not dislodge, no matter how determined I might be to do so. Such a natural foreboding about life led to my existing at a slight remove from the rest of the world – though I had one good friend who persisted for some years until I made a suitable end of things.

  We worked together in administrative roles at the Royal Free Hospital in Belsize Park. It was a pleasant enough time and place in my memory; monotony is a comfort for me in the same way family and friends are for others.

  After a few years together, my friend went on to better himself in various artistic spheres while I persisted in various familiar-yet-unfamiliar offices around London. I tried my hand at writing and self-published a few pamphlets of short poetry, which didn’t change my position in life at all. I still have a handful of stained, dog-eared copies somewhere on my shelves at home – Unwanted Things and Mice Thoughts; those were the titles and I’m sure you haven’t heard of them.

  Among the things my good friend achieved after we stopped working in the same place was marriage to a beautiful woman. Her name was Angela and she was, as they say, something else; a true English rose. I envied him, even when his two daughters were born. His life, to me, seemed idyllic whereas my own was an interminable thing. My family was not composed of bad people but none of them cared much for me or I for them. Also, I was single then and I am single now – a condition one might describe as life-long, even terminal.

  That all being said, my friend was kind to me and we met every three months to share a drink in his local pub – the Watergate – long after we stopped working together. One night, before I departed, he invited me over to dinner. The thought of spending an evening in the presence of Angela was enough to make me say yes though I didn’t tell my friend this. He might not have approved.

  So, the day came around and I could not manage a jot of work until it was time to leave the office – I forget whereabouts I was employed during that period; Angel, perhaps. It is of no consequence to the narrative. I arrived at their home address at six o’clock sharp with a bottle of wine that I hoped was as reasonable as its price. I rang the doorbell and Angela was the one to answer.

  “Are you well? You certainly look it. How long has it been?” she asked.

  “Too long,” I said, in all honesty, and took her hand in mine – holding back the adolescent urge to kiss it like a chivalrous knight. She let me in, took my coat, and hung it up by the door. She showed me into the lounge where their two young daughters were curled up in the armchairs idly reading. The children were dressed for bed. I sat down on the sofa and rested my hands on my knees, making sure my fingers did not fret or pluck at one another like they usually do.

  “Lesa, Ruthie, it’s time for bed. Grown-up time now,” Angela said to the girls in a light but firm voice. They looked up from their books, then looked at me. Lesa smiled. Ruthie regarded me carefully as if she knew me better. Could a child’s eyes espy the truth in so false a creature as myself?

  “Come on now, both of you, bedtime.” Angela said – and they complied, leaving the room courteously. Lesa didn’t spare me a second glance but Ruthie looked me in the eye one more time. I was glad when the
child was gone and out of sight. There were some parts of me I did not wish to be clearly seen, or understood; certainly not by someone so young and supposedly innocent.

  Angela brought me a glass of fine sherry. “I’m afraid he’s running late as per usual. He works far too hard and far too long hours at that place,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said, “but without his efforts. You wouldn’t have all this.”

  I didn’t tell her how much I envied him; having the children, having her most of all, though I ached to. As admissions of undying love, one could hardly get more pathetic really. She interrupted my drifting thoughts, “Ah, here he is now.”

  My friend arrived home without much ceremony, kissed Angela on the cheek, and then sat down to talk with me about this and that. We might as well have been in the pub. The details of our conversation don’t matter now, and they never did at the time, because I kept on watching for his wife who had disappeared through a door as soon as he began to speak. Angela had my sole attention even when she was not present – she held me rapt though she did not know it at all. I listened to her light step as she climbed the stairs, no doubt to kiss the children goodnight like the perfect mother she was – so unlike my own.

  “You all right there?” my friend asked and I came back to myself, having drifted off again.

  “Yes, yes, quite all right. Sorry, I was lost there for a moment.” I made my excuses to divert possible suspicion; not that there was any reason for it – watching and listening were hardly crimes. Angela returned and we went through to the dining room for dinner. I can’t remember what it was we had but I am sure it was splendid. She was an excellent cook among her many talents. But whatever I ate was nothing compared to merely being near her for the span of an evening. The idea of returning to my grubby hovel of a flat began to weigh on me even at that early point in the proceedings.