In the Time of Greenbloom

by Gabriel Fielding

  He certainly did not look as though he were enjoying it; the torrents of his laughter, the ponderosity of his winks, the chuckles which underbubbled his remarks, were all belied by the dead and desperate look in his eyes. When he actually drank he looked suddenly vacant as though he were steeling himself against some private and painful ordeal. More puzzling still, he did not seem to acknowledge even to himself that he was drinking at all. There was no perceptible movement of the submerged upper lip or the pouting lower one, no filling of the cheeks or of the throat itself; the glass was raised, tilted against the teeth, and then replaced nearly empty on the counter. It looked as though time really did stand still for him when he was drinking, so that since there was no before or after for Mr Cudlopp, he was allowed to remain precisely the same for several hours in every week. It was a strangely depressing thought.

  For John himself the hour dragged on to its close; and at last, Michael, having been ‘stood’ another pint for his victory over Albert, suggested it was time they made their way to his friend Horab Greenbloom’s rooms in Balliol College.

  * * *

  It was only as they were climbing the dark staircase to the first floor that John remembered he had left his boater at the Carpenter’s Arms. Michael said they could get it later when ‘they opened again’ and that in the meantime they were better off without it in view of the fact that by going into a college they would be breaking another school rule. John found himself quite satisfied with this argument. The day seemed to be taking a particular and predestined shape of its own; and perhaps as a result of the cyder or perhaps because of a hollowness which he had sensed somewhere inside him ever since ‘the Moors’, he was able to assume a new courage and nonchalance about everything that was happening.

  Of late he had been worried by an increasing tendency to discount all the appearances of the world through which he moved. The spaces about him seemed to be filled with persons and things as remote and insignificant as the stars of the night sky. He found it difficult to believe in all the sounds sights and movements which betokened the living world, and if he had been blind dumb and deaf and so inhabited a dark consciousness of his own, he would have felt no more divorced from the appearances which his senses continually forced him to accept; he might even have accepted them more readily. Within his mind there were unused dimensions which were quite different from those his senses offered him; dimensions of light and shade, of nobility and degradation, better fitted than those the world had used to clothe the passions and aspirations which walked its surfaces. Opening his eyes to people and things, seeing their faces and facades, listening with his ears to the sounds they made, he was often tempted to rock with a dreadful laughter at their demand for serious acceptance, and at such times knew himself to be poised on the edge of a void filled with conceptions more awful even than those which he sensibly encountered.

  Now, as he walked with Michael past the black gates of St John’s College he looked about him greedily, willing himself to accept the trees in the walled sanctuary, the embellishments of the Martyr’s Memorial, and the wide-windowed front of the Randolph Hotel. These things, he told himself, were all that there was, he must walk beneath them round them and through them as other people walked on their two legs, seriously giving them their due.

  At the head of the stairs in Balliol College Michael knocked on the outer door and a muffled though somewhat raucous voice called out “Come in!”

  Michael shouted that since the door was locked, they could not get in, whereat on the other side of the door they heard the utterance of a tired blasphemy followed by a long pause. They heard the springs of a chair squeaking, the sound of something being knocked over and a few moments later the thud-pad of an uneven and impatient walking, then a hand scrabbled at the yale lock and at last the door before them was opened.

  The room beyond it was in semi-darkness, all the curtains being drawn and only one low-calibre bulb shining out from a standard lamp beside an arm-chair. Against this background the small face of their host shone out with palest-green clarity. It was an almost Egyptian face with pitch-black hair and beautifully painted little eyes enclosed between smooth lids; eyes like nothing so much as those depicted on the faces of attendants round the burial chambers of dead Pharaohs. The cheek-bones and their overlying cheeks, as rich as cold cream, were high, the lips thick and gelatinous as turkish delight, and the nostrils of the neat little nose exquisitely curved and petulant.

  Petulance, in fact, was the prevailing mark and mood of the whole person; the little head jutted forward over the narrow shoulders with so great an impatience that it seemed about to disown the remainder of the body and fly off into space upon some urgent purpose of its own. Beside the tiny hips in their expensive sagging ‘Oxford bags’ the white hands hung limply like those of a skeleton, and when their owner on what was obviously an artificial leg led Michael and himself into the darkened room, his whole gait and movement were themselves expressive of that devouring and vexatious haste which was so much a part of his expression.

  “Whass the time? Switsh off that damn’ light for me would you Mick, an’ draw half a curtain? Oh! an’ one of you might pick up that table I knocked over. You woke me up.”

  Michael moved over to the window and very gingerly pulled aside one of the dark-green velvet curtains.

  “Not too much Mick! Not too much.” Turning half round in his chair Greenbloom glared at the grey incoming light. “What the Hell’s time? Any stars out yet? Can you see any stars?”

  “I’m just looking.”

  Greenbloom drew himself down deeper into his chair and then glanced sickly at John. “Who’s this you’ve brought with you?” he asked.

  “Who’s what?” asked Michael from his position by the window.

  “This,” gestured Greenbloom; “there’s two of you, there’s someone standing in front of my chair here. Who is it? It’s not Fritters, it’s no one I know, who is it?”

  “I told you,” said Michael. “It’s John, my brother. If you remember you invited him to tea when I mentioned him to you yesterday.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “Oh yesterday! Why didn’t you say so, you know what my memory is.” He sat up a little higher in his chair and craned forward towards John. “Who are you? Let’s have a look at you. Wass your name? An’ if you don’t mind for God’s sake pick up that table! and if there’s anything broken chuck it in the basket.”

  John stooped down by the small occasional table which lay on the carpet. There was a decanter of whisky lying beside it unbroken but the stopper had come out and the whisky had run into the thick pile like a puppy-patch and wetted a number of five-pound notes and some loose silver nearby. He picked the notes up first, shook them quickly and then handed them to Greenbloom who waved them away distastefully.

  “Put ’em on mantelpiece,” he said, “or give ’em Mick—Schobbers!”

  “Here you are,” said Michael moving over to him, “you’d better let me have them. Horab’s not allowed to touch money today because it’s the Jewish sabbath.”

  “What is your name?” croaked Greenbloom again. “No one will tell me who you are. I’ve asked three times already and neither you yourself nor Mick will answer me.”

  “Blaydon,” said John. “John Blaydon—I’m Mick’s brother.”

  Greenbloom sat up suddenly like a puppet being inexpertly manipulated.

  “Not the Blaydon boy? You John Blaydon?”

  “Yes.” John mopped at the whisky with his handkerchief.

  “Christ! Whyn’t you tell me Mick? I’d no idea.”

  “My dear Horab, I told you twice yesterday; I mentioned it again this morning when I came in to ask you if there was anything you wanted, and I’ve just refreshed your memory again. What on earth’s the matter with you?”

  Greenbloom frowned. “Yes, all right, all right! Don’t embarrass everyone.”

  He turned to John. “Look here, has he given you anything to eat? I m
ean have you had luncheon somewhere?”

  “Well actually no—not yet—”

  “Some food in the Scout’s hole, or there should be.” With surprising agility he got to his feet and lurching across the room to a large table covered with bottles seized a plate of cakes and limped back with them.

  “Kosher,” he said. “Like Kosher?”

  John took one of the little iced squares and put it whole into his mouth. It did not seem necessary to answer the question; he just ate the cake and then took another one.

  “Tea!” said Greenbloom. “Make Yerba Maté! Or’d you rather have a drink?”

  “No, tea,” said John, slipping easily into the monosyllabic pattern of the conversation.

  “Make tea, Scout’s hole, Mick,” he ordered without looking round. Behind them Michael promptly disappeared through a door in the wall opposite the windows.

  “Egg?” asked Greenbloom.

  “Love it!”

  “Egg!” shouted Greenbloom in his strange sandpaper voice.

  There was no audible answer from Michael in the adjacent kitchenette and in the silence John stole another glance at the face so near his own. It was watching him greedily, almost affectionately, hungry with interest; and it returned his glance without any embarrassment. There was no shyness or self-consciousness in the long eyes confronting his own, they were as certain and demanding as those of a child who sees something that is urgently desired.

  “Better?”

  “Much, thanks.”

  “Mick’s a selfish devil. Shove ha’penny?”

  “Yes, he did have a game.”

  “Win?”

  “Yes.”

  “Beer all the time?”

  “Yes.”

  “Muck! Whisky?”

  “No, he only drank beer.”

  “Not him. You! Would you like a whisky?”

  “Oh no thanks.”

  “Hock? Burgundy? Schnapps? Vodka? Pimms?”

  “I’d love to try some vodka.”

  Greenbloom yawned again. “S’on the table—help yourself. No that white bottle, half full. Sorry I can’t stock your glass but can’t do any manner of work until schobbers is over.”

  “I see. It’s quite all right, I love pouring out drinks. You’ve got a colossal selection over here.”

  “Got to. Essential. Not always, you understand, but most of the time. What is the time? Will no one tell me? Clock’s stopped and I can’t wind it or use the telephone until those damn’ stars make their appearance.”

  “Well we left the Carpenter’s at closing time and then we went to Mick’s room for a bit and then went for a walk along the river. Michael gave me some biscuits, he thought we ought to have some exercise. I suppose it must be getting on for five.”

  “Good. Hop over to the window, will you, and see if there’s any sign of a star yet?”

  John scanned the sky above the College Square. It was pale grey-blue and above the buildings he could just see the thin uppermost limit of the mists which were descending on Port Meadow and the Whitham Woods.

  “Any star?” he asked.

  “Yes. Try over in the direction of the Radcliffe. Usually shines out there this time of the year.”

  Until it grew darker no star would penetrate that white and tenuous vapour.

  “I can’t see one—I’m awfully sorry Mr Greenbloom.”

  “Never mind! It’ll give us time for tea before we start. Call me Horab if you don’t mind.”

  John turned away from the window and sipped his vodka. He was feeling happy, peaceful; he liked this dark room, the richness hidden in the shadows and resident in the pale grandeur of his host. Feeling immediately mature he walked easily over to the marble chimney-piece and leaning his elbow on it gazed into the surface of the antique mirror which surmounted it. Greenbloom obviously accepted him as a person of significance, an equal. He wished that Michael would fail to return, he would be an unnecessary interruption coming between them and the unspoken fellowship which he was sure they both sensed. Emptying the little glass he put it down in front of him and spoke into the mirror towards the tall shape of Greenbloom hovering against the light of the dusk.

  “Are you going out?” he asked.

  “We’re all going out! London!”

  The figure in the glass turned into sharp profile against the window-pane. “Mick, hurry up with that egg will you? Got to get shaved.”

  “There’s something the matter with this gas!” shouted Michael. “The water won’t boil. You’ll have to have an underdone egg John or else come and cook it yourself.”

  “I’d rather you cooked it,” said John, “and personally I don’t mind if it’s raw.”

  There was no reply and in a few minutes Michael appeared with an egg balanced on a napkin ring, a flat loaf of unleavened bread, and a little packet of butter. He placed these on a small table, lighted a cigarette and then somewhat irritably told John to go and make the tea.

  “What’s this about London, Horab?” he asked.

  “Shave first,” said Greenbloom; “razor’s in bedroom.”

  Michael called to John: “Is the kettle boiling yet?”

  “Yes, I’m just filling the pot.”

  “Splendid. When you’ve done that I shall want your help. Do you know how to use an electric razor?”

  “No, I don’t think so, but I can try. Why?”

  “Horab needs shaving.”

  “Oh.”

  Well why should he have to do it? he thought angrily as he put the tea-things on the tray and carried it through into the sitting-room.

  Michael took it from him. “Would you mind getting Horab’s razor from his bedroom and giving him a quick shave while I pour out the tea.”

  John went into the bedroom. It looked as though it had been inexpertly burgled the night before. In the middle of the floor there was a pile of evening clothes surrounded by a gleaming chaos of silk sheets; against the wall on a black leather nail-studded chest there was an open dispatch-case containing a litter of foreign paper currency from which he selected three thousand-franc notes and five hundred Reich-marks. From the washhand-stand he took a packet of bath salts wrapped in mauve cellophane and one of two dozen bottles of exciting-looking brilliantines. The dressing-table shone redly with an assortment of gold silver and tortoise-shell hairbrushes hand-glasses and combs. Beside the black bed which was surmounted by a silver reading light and three black ostrich feathers, there was a revolving bookcase filled with new paper-covered books. He saw French titles, German titles and copies of English books printed in foreign countries; open, on the top of the case was a book called Là-Bas, by someone named J-K. Huysmans. He would have liked to have spent at least ten minutes or a quarter of an hour in looking at the pictures on the walls, intent-looking relatives, and religious paintings from India with elephants and Buddhas, in ruffling through the half-open drawers from which hung enormous subfusc ties and black silk socks, but realised that a too long delay might arouse suspicions, and so although his fingers were itching for fresh plunder, he called out, “I can’t find it. Where is it?”

  “Try the dressing-table drawer,” shouted Greenbloom, “that’s where my scout usually puts it and I told him I didn’t want disturbing this morning so it should be there.”

  Eagerly John pulled open the top drawer. It contained an unlocked pigskin box in which there were small trays divided into separate compartments each of them filled with cufflinks, dress-shirt studs and jewelled tie-pins. They looked extremely valuable, far too tempting to take. Behind the box was the electric razor made of grey plastic and shaped like a tiny racing car.

  “I’ve got it,” he said as Michael entered.

  “Good.”

  “How does it work?”

  “Plug it into the light Mick,” said Greenbloom. “I think you’d better do it, I don’t want him electrocuting me.”

  “No,” said Michael in a flat voice. “I’m tired.” He yawned. “John’s been sitting down all morning while I k
ept the flag flying at the Carpenter’s. He’s all right Horab, really he is. He’s going to read Medicine later and you’ll find he’s got a much surer touch than I have myself.”

  “Well for God’s sake get a move on one of you.” He stretched his long legs out over the carpet so that his small head lay just above the level of the arms of the chair.

  John removed the bulb from the standard lamp and plugged the end of the flex into the socket. When it started to whirr he handed it to Greenbloom who waved it away wearily.

  “Fire!” he said. “Blue sparks, can’t touch fire during Schobbers. Go on Mick, take it from him and shave me.” He turned his small white face up towards the ceiling.

  “Look,” said Michael to John. “Perfectly simple, use it like a curry comb on a horse. It’s just the sort of thing you’re so good at, you’ve got that wonderful sympathy for anyone in trouble.”

  John glanced up at him but there was no shadow of a smile on Michael’s sombre face. Very gingerly he started to run the razor over Greenbloom’s chin which he now saw was covered with fat black hairs like the legs of tiny insects protruding through the skin.

  Greenbloom closed his eyes and lay so completely inert and silent that for a moment John had the unhappy feeling he was shaving a corpse; a royal corpse from some remote oriental kingdom. It struck him that this was an unique response; as individual to Greenbloom as his limp. He had seen other men reclining in hairdresser’s chairs or in turkish baths but they had always appeared either sensual and full-blooded or else tired and ill, like children in the arms of their attendants; but about Greenbloom there was an air of mortality. He consented to this physical experience as actively as a corpse consents to death. It was implicit in his passivity, his bloodlessness, the dimness of the room, even in the bier-like design of his bed next door and made this a moment which he welcomed coldly as something essential to his being. John was sure that, unlike Mr Cudlopp when he was drinking, there was for Greenbloom a real sense of time only when under such circumstances as these he was able to abandon all active participation in his day and drift into some twilit neutrality of his own.