by (epub)
So two other girls from the chorus open the door quickly. “It’s for me,” shouts the first one, who has a chiffon nightgown with little red roses on her shoulder-straps. And turning to the other girl she shouts: “I told you Reggie was a sweet one!”
So the telegraph boy approaches her. Naldi or no Naldi, this is worth while looking into. And lowering his voice: “Is Naldi the name?”
And the girl bangs the door in disgust.
They have all disappeared again into their stuffy cubicles. Only Shark opens the door again, and wistfully smiling, he says: “Did you try No. 4, the door over there?”
“No,” says the boy, “I was told No. 11.”
“Just try 4.”
So the boy approaches room No. 4, and he knocks and knocks again, and he is quite surprised when the door finally opens and out comes a man in heavy woollen underwear, who coughs twice in very masculine fashion, and says: “What is it, my boy?”
“Telegram for the missus,” says the boy, whereupon Kraut produces another hearty sound from his larynx, with a slightly embarrassed smile.
Neither of them see Shark watching, nor hear him disappear with a witch-like “He-he!” into his own lonely cubbyhole.
The sea again. The trawler. And two—no—three big seagulls circling around. And here the beach. And a man in waders, a pipe in his mouth, tries to catch an odd cod, or just hopelessly flat plaice.
It’s going to be a fine day after all.
“Gentlemen,” says Julian, “we take the first three bars quite slowly and pianissimo—only the first violin”—and bending down to the first violinist—“you see, Mr. Schafitz?”
“Excuse me,” says the first violinist, a man with that certain Polish look, “excuse me, Mr. Spencer, but I needn’t be told what to do. I played in Bournemouth for thirteen years. I conducted an orchestra myself. I needn’t be told. After all, it’s all marked on the score, and I can read.”
“I’m sorry,” says Julian. “I just wanted to make it quite clear.”
But at this moment the bassoon player gets up from his little chair. By the way, he looks like a beaver with dangerously protruding fangs. “You explained everything yesterday and the day before, and we worked for eight hours, and we do our best.”
“Quite,” says the sex-starved woman at the harp, sliding her feet uneasily up and down the pedals.
And the first horn—a man who looks like a hunter in a song-book for children—shaking the spittle out of his valuable instrument: “I think this rehearsal is absolutely unnecessary, and I personally, I am fed up with it. I’ve never seen a score like this. I haven’t the lungs of a monster.” And, imitating Julian, he says: “Hold it, hold it! Lively, lively!”
This is an open revolution, an outburst of slave-driven humanity, or better, mediocrity. It’s all to the good that Bosworth, the Manager, arrives at this moment, sound and normal, with cigar and bowler hat, to act like olive oil on troubled waters.
“Gentlemen,” he says, “I understand, but you see, Mr. Spencer—I mean it’s his first performance. He’s nervous. Young artists—you all know how they are, don’t you? And have a cigar,” he says to the first violinist.
And so everybody smiles again, and the man at the drum blows his nose, and the beaver-like bassoon player says: “These things will happen. Never mind, Mr. Spencer.”
And Spencer taps with his bâton on the stand. But Bosworth interrupts him: “Spencer,” he says, “don’t forget to-morrow”—and he makes this quite clear with a strong and decisive gesture—“no rehearsal. And here,” he says, “is the programme. How does this look to you? ‘Guest Conductor.’ Not so bad to have one’s name together with Sir Desmond Castle on one programme, eh?”
The man from the organ gallery shouts down: “Bosworth, I must have a word with you.”
“Right,” says Bosworth. “At once.”
And he walks down the aisle between the empty rows of numbered seats. Here and there covered with grey sheets.
The orchestra starts to play Julian Spencer’s “Dream of London” Symphony.
It’s a rehearsal at Queen’s Hall, Langham Place, London, W.1.
Sometimes people play cards in the morning if they have nothing better to do. You can’t go bathing at this time of the year. You’re sick and tired of taking brisk walks along the beach. Coco’s tales of Russia and his spasmodic recollections become as dreary as warmed-up mutton as time goes on.
Only the girls from the chorus go on twittering about their particular Reggies, special sales at Barker’s, and the interesting triangle of a man called Spencer, who just isn’t here, and the heavy-weight champion, Sullivan Kraut, and a girl who is a fine one, and that is Viva.
Not to forget Mrs. Esmond. Most of the day she feels constantly bilious and is from time to time overcome by terrific nausea, and one only can hope for the best.
So Shark is forced to stick to the male part of the troupe, and that’s why he joins Kraut and Ritornelli in a game of cards.
Joseph, the flat-footed waiter, is tired of it all, and only serves beer if shouted for at least twice. Those artists. But now he stands watching those three, cleaning his left ear from time to time with his customary napkin.
Ritornelli is dealing. “It must be the liver,” he says, and Shark says: “A couple for me,” and Kraut: “I’ll take three,” whereupon Ritornelli remarks: “Dealer’s three.”
“Two,” says Shark.
Joseph blows his nose in the napkin for a change.
Kraut lights his cigar: “Raise you two.”
“By me,” says Ritornelli.
“And three,” from Kraut.
“Up four.”
Kraut sighs: “See you.”
“Oop!” says Joseph. “Not so good for you, Mr. Kraut.”
“Licked,” says Shark.
And Kraut gets up, saying: “I’m not feeling well.”
“Doesn’t surprise me,” says Shark.
Kraut hasn’t missed this remark, and he turns around and takes a dangerous step towards Shark. “You didn’t say anything?” he asks sharply.
“Me?” says Shark with faked innocence. “Not a word.” And he goes on dealing.
And Joseph who is whirling the napkin violently in his ear says: “Ga-ga-ga!” and then: “Now, Mr. Kraut.”
“One just gets a bit nervous,” says Kraut. And, bending down to Shark: “By the way, Mr. Stage Manager, I always have two curtains, in case you don’t know. Cutting off the applause. Understand, Mr. Shark?” And he raises his voice and he exits noisily, muttering: “I’m just as much an artist as——” the door goes ‘glup-glup’ and Shark laughs: “He-he!” and finishes: “Just as much an artist as Julian Spencer—that’s what he means.”
“Two,” says Ritornelli.
“Raise you three,” says Shark.
“And four.”
“Now for a good scrap,” says Joseph, napkin dropping, spirits rising.
These are kidneys and what huge ones! And tripe and liver, dangling down from the iron hooks, and congealed blood on the dead, scared faces of lambs, and the stupid features of slaughtered pigs. Blood drizzling.
This is Soho again. And it’s a splendid afternoon and no fog and everything can be seen quite clearly, and those two men seem to be having quite a hefty argument. And Bellometti seems to be twice his size and he might wring Julian’s neck any minute.
Julian argues: “Listen, Mr. Bellometti, it’s only a fortnight.”
Bellometti snaps back: “Fortnight? It’s four weeks since you gave me de money. Because you are de artist you think de money no importance.”
And Spencer: “To-night is my concert, Mr. Bellometti.” And he fumbles in pocket. “Here are two tickets, and to-morrow I shall pay. That’s all right?”
Bellometti snatches the tickets and he throws them on the floor and he stamps on them with boots, size sixteen, “De tickets?” he shouts. “Keep dem. I don’t want your tickets. I want de cash!” And suddenly: “What is dis all about? It just came
to my mind. All de liver and de tripe? What are you doing if you, de artist—dere is something stinking.” And turning to his wife at the cash-register: “You were always wondering what she was doing, mother of his.” And, crossing himself: “Madonna rest her soul—with merchandise of mine. So you are following up trade, Mr. Spencer? What? Sausage factory in de stinky basement? Two rats, one kidney, make a sausage, Mr. Spencer? What do you say? But”—and he is four times his size now—“you must have de licence, and de registration in de city of London, and you not pay de income-tax. You are no fool, Mr. Spencer, no five shillings in de pound for you. Covering up tax-payer’s crime with de doodle-doodle music. But you’re not quite de clever man you think, and Bellometti might put on coat of his and go down to Bow Street at once.”
Spencer tries to stop him and, quite frightened, he says: “Mr. Bellometti, listen, Bellometti—I shall pay to-morrow—I have no factory—I——”
“So you are feeding de snakes,” says Bellometti, “or de bambino crocodilio, de little pets, just for pleasure?” And turning to one of his slaughter-assistants he says: “Take de package!” And he yanks it out of de customer Spencer’s hand. “Come on, Gino, take it. That package won’t leave Bellometti’s store, and here are de tickets, Mr. Spencer, so we are quit, and if to-morrow dere’s no money I shall make de little visit myself to dis snake-house.”
Julian only looks at him with pleading eyes. “To-morrow at ten, Bellometti. I swear you will have the money. You needn’t come. Promise you won’t come, Mr. Bellometti? Do you hear me? I swear, three pounds, ten shilling and fourpence. I know what I owe you. I’m not cheating. Three pounds, ten shillings and fourpence.”
But Bellometti turns away, and to his full-bosomed wife he says, screwing up his eyes: “Julia, I know, dere is de terrific crime at de work. I just know, dere is something hidden and”—he puffs up his chest—“de mystery. Bellometti knows.” And slapping her on the back: “And Bellometti is always right!”
Now. This is quite different. No hefty talks or arguments. Everything breathes the dreary spirit of peace and sour bourgeois stuffiness. And this is the home of Mr. and Mrs. Schafitz, first violinist of the D.B.C. Orchestra.
Remember, the man with that certain Polish look, who once flew at Julian Spencer? But usually he means well. He lies on the sofa, coat nicely draped over the chair, and Mrs. Schafitz feeding the canary in the window. Schafitz is a man of leisure, and one can see he got married ages ago. But no children.
“Rosie,” he says, thinking with his eyes fixed on the ceiling, where there is a splendid pattern of roses, gardenias and acanthus leaves. “This concert to-night. This Julian Spencer. A very strange man. I don’t like it.”
“Yes, duckie,” says Mrs. Schafitz.
“This man is haunted. Something quite uncanny.”
“Yes, duckie,” says Mrs. Schafitz again, now putting hemp seeds into the opalescent glass receptacle.
“Maybe,” says the first violinist, “maybe he is only a genius.”
“Yes, duckie.”
“But better,” continues Schafitz, whose eyes switch from the ceiling to Mrs. Schantz’s familiar behind, “better not be a genius, but have a certain income, wife, home, canary, and comfort. What,” he says, and his voice gets sweet and sticky like cheap caramel, “what, Rosie, would I do without you?” And longingly he opens his arms wide to his very elaborate and so cosy spouse.
“You better get up now,” says she, who doesn’t like that sort of thing. Besides, if one once gets started—anyway, the first violinist should always be at the concert in time.
So Mrs. Schafitz says: “Duckie, the dinner is ready, and I’ve bought the cheese you like—Liptauer—with little capers.”
“Liptauer?” says Schafitz and rises, “Now you’re talking.” And his late body-urge is completely drowned in the sudden desire for Liptauer cheese, and on his way to the dining-room he snaps his fingers towards the canary, murmurs: “Hallo, Hansi!” and then: “I’ve a very bad feeling about to-night. I don’t like the looks of that Mr. Spencer.”
“But you don’t like anybody, duckie, lately,” says Rosie Schafitz. “It’s your liver again, duckie.”
And with a fed-up gesture, he whines: “No-o . . . it’s not the liver, and it’s not the cheese, but I don’t like to-night’s concert, and I don’t like the looks of that genius. Trouble ahead. And I’m telling you, Rosie, I haven’t half got the wind up,”
And he gives an anticipatory belch: “Burrrr!”
It isn’t the rain and it isn’t the wind. No. It’s this eternal fog. A grey, thick, fog, which hangs heavily over Brighton and, farther down, Hove.
And the sea is smooth, grey, thick, and slow-moving. White patches here and there, farther out. And a few sea-gulls circling low. It’s probably four o’clock in the afternoon. Maybe, it’s later. And a few little flags wobble tiredly in the wind, and they look like little handkerchiefs for those heavy atmospheric tears—the rain.
Coco is standing on the pavement, and the little Wizard next to him, sniffing at some interesting bit deposited by a member of the opposite sex.
Coco looks at this contemplatively, looks at Wizard, then looks up again and in a straight horizontal line his eyes get involved with the sea. He obviously sees something interesting, too, and when a girl from the chorus passes by—galoshes, umbrella, rain-soaked little bonnet—uninterested and disgusted with everything, he stops her.
“Amy,” he says, “look, look—can you see?”
“What?” says the girl whose name is Amy. “What do you see, Coco?”
“Look,” says Coco again, pointing way out to the sea. “You see? Now it comes up again!”
“What comes up?” says the girl.
“Look,” says Coco again.
“Oh, yes,” says the girl. “It’s something strange. That’s a fish.”
“No,” says Coco, “it just isn’t a fish. It’s something—but I can’t think,” he says. “I can’t remember what one calls that sort of thing. You know, something which really doesn’t exist, although everybody has seen it, and you read in the papers about it. There it is again.”
“That’s funny,” says Amy. “I can see it quite clearly. Now it comes up again—and what a splash behind it!”
“What do you call it?” says Coco. “The thing you see, but which really doesn’t exist?”
“A monster,” says the girl.
“And this is a speed-boat,” says Coco, and then he sniffs and gives a faint “He-he! I knew all the time it was a speed-boat. Just fooling you, Amy.”
“Fool yourself,” says the girl, and walks away.
And Coco: “Come on, Wizard, it’s getting cold.” And he walks towards the boarding-house and disappears.
When he enters he sees Shark, Ritornelli, and Mr. Esmond standing in a small group, talking in subdued voices. They all stick their heads together and something seems to be up.
Coco quickly taps the barometer, but the thread of mercury sticks to the label “Change.”
“He-he!” he says again, and then he turns towards the three gentlemen, who look as if they are at a board meeting of an undertaker’s firm.
“Anybody died,” says Coco, for this is the first thing that he, feeble-minded as he is, can think of.
“Worse than that,” says Ritornelli.
“I know,” says Coco. “It’s Mrs. Esmond—poor baby! It was the same with my second sister. Just died like a fly.”
“Shut up!” shouts Esmond. “Bloody fool! You would say something like that.”
“Sorry,” says Coco. And simultaneously: “He-he!”
Ritornelli continues: “So Kraut goes into her room, and she shouts——?”
“That’s right,” says Shark. “I heard her, I was just on the way to the toilet——”
“That’s right,” says Coco.
“How do you know?” shouts Ritornelli, “you weren’t there!”
“No,” says Coco, “I was exercising the Wizard.”
And
Ritornelli: “Hell! Now I don’t know what I was talking about—clear out, Coco! And she shouts——”
“That’s right,” says Shark. “As I said, I heard her, too, because I was on my way.”
“Correct,” says Ritornelli. “We heard that before. So she shouts——”
“Shouts?” says Mr. Esmond. “Who shouts?”
Ritornelli looks as if he is going to have a fit. “For God’s sake—I don’t know what I’m talking about any more!”
And Coco, in high-pitched voice: “I know. Mr. Shark was just going to the toilet.”
“Why stress this point?” shouts Shark, highly annoyed. “It’s none of your concern, Mr. Coco.”
Ritornelli, quite exhausted, says: “I got all tangled up. It’s always Coco—what was I talking about?”
But Shark doesn’t co-operate—he only complains: “We were having such a good time—what a story! I’m fed up.” And he walks away.
Ritornelli blows his nose, and kicks at Wizard, saying something like ‘bastard,’ and goes upstairs.
And Mr. Esmond, plump as a Christmas bird, an expression of great private stupidity on his face says: “It wasn’t my fault that the meeting broke up.”
And Coco, laughing swankily: “So we shall never know whether Shark ever got to the toilet.”
“O.K.” says Esmond drowsily. “Right. Quite. Absolutely.”
And Coco turns around, and obviously looking at Wizard, he says: “What, again?”
And out he rushes with the little artiste.
The rain, the wind, Brighton, and little flags swaying in the wind. And thick December fog hangs over black shining roofs, cold pavements, and the minds of people. What a hopeless afternoon altogether!
Kraut is walking up and down the room without stopping. When he comes to the edge of the frayed carpet he swings round his left leg with military precision, and walks back again.
He is all shirt-sleeves and turned-up moustache.
Viva is standing at the window, and she looks at the sea, and there is a trawler again, way out fighting its way through the gale that has sprung up. The lights on the mast bobbing up and down.
Suddenly Kraut stops. “I should have known better. Me? I don’t blame you at all. You said last Tuesday—no, it wasn’t—Wednesday—on Wednesday night you told me yourself that it was all over, that you were fed up with him and that artistic stuff. Ha!” He laughs boisterously. “I should have known better! I would never have done it—not me. I’m old-fashioned and I’m proud of it. Liebe—oh, you people don’t know what it means for a man of my age to fall in love. I am no young scoundrel any more. Principles and a sense of duty and responsibility. It’s all gone phut, washed out.”
