by Gerald Kersh
Shuddering in the bitter draft, shivering in his grove of dangling tripes and dripping lights and calcified kidneys and purple livers—all gently swaying on their bloody hooks as it were by their own volition—the consumptive butcher poised his scarred red fists on the scarred red chopping block and said, “Well neow, Mr. Godbolt, that’s not fur me to say.”
“Not for you to say, Mr. Gutter? Why, that little shop’s been on the market this past five year. Shop and upper part, I believe, Mr. Gutter. A matter of fifteen-and-six a week you were asking, wasn’t you?”
“I was,” said Gutter, playing with a pig’s eyelids. He could make a pig’s head appear to wink with one hand while with the other he slyly operated the muscles of its jaw so that it opened its mouth—what time he uttered, ventriloquially, an exact imitation of the squeal of the animal when it feels the knife go home. This trick amused the children and drew customers.
“Was?”
Gutter laughed in his frothy way and said, “Ah! But it’s a peownd a week neow, Mr. Godbolt.”
“Between neighbors, Mr. Gutter, I’ll give you sixteen shillings.”
“No, yeou won’t, ‘cause I let that thur shop and upper part this morning, Mr. Godbolt, fur a peownd a week on a twenty-yurr lease to Mr. Yudeneow. Bet hell rush yeou half a creown extra, heh-heh-heh!”
Mr. Godbolt said, “Now I wonder, Mr. Gutter, what Mr. Yudenow would be wanting these here premises for?”
“Why,” said Gutter, “that one’s got some ideer of opening up just a little caffey like, it being handy fur his picture palace. Pity yeou didden call yesturdee.” He split the pig’s head with a cleaver, fondled the brains, and said, “Ah, Mr. Godbolt, if we knew what was inside them, we’d be as weise as this yur piggy, wouldn’t we, Mr. Godbolt?”
“And what does Mr. Yudenow propose to do with the upper part, Mr. Gutter?”
“Ah! If I knew that I’d be as weise as Mr. Yudeneow,” said Gutter.
Frustrated, Mr. Godbolt went home and said to his wife, “Mrs. Godbolt, Lord love me—”
“Keep your mouth clean in this house, Godbolt, or I’ll scrub it with soap ‘n’ water!”
“I was saying, Mrs. Godbolt—you know that three-hundred-foot frontage lot where the signboard is? That factory site, so called? I’ve a good mind to buy it.”
“You think yourself clever, don’t you, Godbolt? Well, that man Yudenow has already bought it.”
“What the devil!”
“Speak of the devil and he’s sure to appear, Godbolt.”
“He has. How much a foot did he pay?”
“Ten shillings.”
“What is he going to do with it?” asked Mr. Godbolt.
“Something wicked, I dare say, just out of spite. Why, what were you going to do with it?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Godbolt. But with that man about, I thought it would be better to have it just in case.”
“In case what of?”
“I don’t know, I really don’t know,” said Mr. Godbolt. A little later, over his tea, he said, “And now, I dare say, I suppose we’d better get the shop painted up a bit.” He added heavily, “Sometimes I don’t know what to do.”
His wife said, “Very likely. You don’t, I dare say, Godbolt. But I know what I’m going to do.”
When he saw his wife rubbing her front legs together over an inkpot, Mr. Godbolt knew that something was in the air. And when she got out a bit of notepaper, and squared her elbows, and licked a new pen-nib, he feared the worst.
As I was later to discover, this fear of his was not without justification.
I knew nothing of these goings-on when Sam Yudenow employed me as manager of the Fowlers End Pantheon.
“Alittle palace I made it of,” he told me. “I want you should veneer it miv venerance—like ... like ... like a covered wagon miv Indians in the mildemess. Bing, bash, bosh—another foreskin bites the dusk! Idills, it’s my idill. Look north, look sarf, look east, even, and what ‘ave you got? Mud, shit, snails, loafers—the salt o’ the earth. Go west, young man, and you won’t do it again in a ‘urry, believe me! North is straight on but bearing right, then sharp left from the end o’the tram lines. West is in the other diraction, only kind o’ sarf kind o’ style, near Ullage. ‘Ere, just ‘ere is the... the... the osis in the desert. Corns on my ‘ands they got, putting this place up—laryngitis I got giving ‘em advice. It got me gruggy.... I want you should be prahd. Not too prahd to take your coat off and pick up a screwdriver. But prahd. Walk like you own the earth, so everybody should say, ‘Aha! One o’ Sam Yudenow’s managers!’ Be spotless, unmaculate you should be, so anybody should say, ‘This gentleman will leave my laven-try as he would wish to find it. One o’ Yudenow’s boys.’ But I don’t want you should be ashamed to put your ‘ands in cold water, frinstance. Frinstance, the Ladies’ gets stopped up, don’t be afraid to roll up your sleeves and put your ‘ands into ‘em. A little bit soap, a little bit water, everything’s gone and forgotten. For dead babies, inform the police. Anything,” said Sam Yudenow earnestly, taking me by the arm, “anything so long you shouldn’t think this is Buckingham Palace. A pioneer be, but leave no marks. Who knows? In this mud could be oil. Look!”
The inside of this deplorable cinema was decorated with what used to be called the “plastic effect”—in other words, wet plaster had been smeared about with a harrow that had palate knives for blades. The noisome dust of Fowlers End lay deep in the furrows. The walls were now gray-green, but still showed patches of emerald flecked with gold. Scarlet fire buckets hung from gilt brackets over radiators which might have been painted with smoke. The wall lights, which were enclosed in jazz-patterned boxes of orange-colored glass, contained incandescent gas mantles and painted electric bulbs which glimmered alternately with two different kinds of dimness.
From a peeling brass-plated rod fixed in the center of the roof hung a kind of orange-and-green dustbin made of glass lozenges. If there is such a thing as brown light, brown light leaked out of the top of this contraption, making a shapeless pattern which, when you looked at it, took away your will to live. Looking up as a quicksand closes over your head, you see such a light and such a pattern as the last bubble bursts.
“That,” said Sam Yudenow, “that is my masterpiece, that. D’you foller me? It’s natural. It’s green, get me? And orange, d’you foller? Green and orange, they’re natural colors, ain’t they? Bugger the decorators, believe me—a thing is natural, it goes together like an orange. Look at a vose flahrs—ved voses, vi’let-colored vi’lets, yeller... yeller... yeller—”
“Buttercups?”
“Buttercups, cutterbups—yeller! Daisies, green stalks, mauve, schmauve... There’s no such thing as decoration so long as it’s natural. Not to forget but to remember this, when you get a lining brush an’ a pot paint an’ a bit paper to make a little ‘Coming Shortly.’ Use your ‘magination. Nishertive, nishertive! Look at a vainbow. Any complaint from a vainbow? ‘Ere, remember, you’re like God. In the cupboard is plenty orange paint an’ green paper— behave as such!
“Now I want you should see the genevator room.” He took a key out of his waistcoat pocket and said solemnly, “Whereas—d’you foller me?—whereas ...” Sam Yudenow suddenly took a fancy to this word. “Whereas, in case o’ fire, it is your sacred duty to test all the panic bolts so that the exits open outwards. Remember the Dundee Disaster! Three hundred children trampled to death by their mothers and fathers because some bastard shouted ‘Fire!’ an’ the exits opened inwards. Not to forget this terrible thing! Burn me a few children to death, an’ I’m the sufferer. Test them panic bolts every morning, but watch your fingers—they snap back like a rat trap. I slipped a few springs in ‘em. It’s a racket rahnd ‘ere: some sod-pot pays his fivepence—they make a pool, the bastards, an’ stake ‘im— so ‘e opens a side exit an’ ‘alf a dozen of ‘em slip in. You see the position I’m in? Apart from taking the teef out o’my mouf, say an inspector comes in? Overcrowding I’m accused o’. Whereas I’m
allowed six hundred seated an’ twenty-nine standing, if they find one extra in the ‘all, I’m the sufferer whereas. Get that pioneer’s spirit, d’you foller me? If you see a few o’the salt o’the earth more than there should be on the ‘ole it would be better if you ‘ung yourself. Six hundred twenty-nine sitting and standing is the capistry o’this ‘ere show—fill it to such, no more! Whereas, no less. Six hundred twenty-nine audience is okay. Six hundred thirty is suicide. Six hundred twenty-eight I die o’ starvation an’ you’re out of a job.
“Sometimes, Friday, Saturday, the Fowlers End Superman Association comes mob-handed to bust in, every one miv some tart from the acid factory miv a bottle fulsuric acid in ‘er bag. ‘Ere, use diplomacy. Let ‘em in an’ you’re sunk. Lock the doors an’ it’s ten to one a fire breaks out. Argue miv ‘em an’ you’ll go ‘ome mivout a face. So jolly ‘em along. Use, like they say in the Army, tictacs. Say, one at a time, “There’s a telephone call for you,’ or something like that, like a gentleman—an’ get ‘em out into the alley. Then don’t soil your ‘ands on ‘em. Knock their bloody blocks off but leave no mark. If one o’the gels threatens you miv a ginger-beer bottle full o’ oil o’ vitviol, kind o’ shrug your shoulders like Ronald Colman an’ turn away. The last one that threw vitviol over one o’ my managers got seven years. So remember: Britons never never never ... Zize saying, whereas everything else is open or shut as the case may be, this ‘ere gene-vator room must always be locked, except.”
This generator room of his must have been some kind of vestryroom in the days of the Nakedbomers. In the middle of a dusty concrete floor stood a dilapidated old dynamo, weirdly illuminated by a double-jointed diffraction of sooty light that found its way in through a wonky stained-glass window. In one corner stood the Nakedbomers’ baptismal font, which looked like a bidet bristling with spikes. Goodness knows what sights that font had seen; now it contained a brown-ale bottle, a broken gollywog, and a stained pair of antediluvian corsets which, as I afterward learned, had been cut off a bloated matriarch who burst with emotion at Ramona.
“The brushes,” said Sam Yudenow, pointing to the dynamo, “are kind o’ groggy. I don’t mind telling you the ‘lectrician comes in ‘ere in rubber galoshes to insulate ‘imself when it’s running. Sometime, to keep your ‘and in, better rewind the core. Leave this ‘ere door open and one o’ the kids is dead certain to come in an’ play miv the sparks just because they’re blue. The salt o’ the earth, mind you— but oh, what a lot o’ shitpots! Last one tried that stopped the show, an’ they didn’t carry the poor little bastard out—I don’t mind telling you, they chased ‘im out in kind o’ flakes miv a feather duster. Never mind that whereas. What I mean to say is, I mean to say—I don’t want you should bring women in ‘ere an’ give ‘em afterwards complimentary tickets. I want to be like a father to you, d’you foiler? From women rahnd ‘ere you get first of all a dose, an’ afterwards bad public relations. Any woman that comes into one o’ Sam Yudenow’s shows should be treated like your sister— ’ave nothing to do miv ‘em! One o’my other managers ‘ere, Booligan, so ‘e used to bring women into the genevator room. Two ‘e lectrocuted, an’ one ‘e got into trouble. What a ruffian! Everything ‘e touched, so ‘e got it into trouble and afterwards give it a complimentary ticket, that sexual regenerate. An’ what a crook! Listen—you ‘eard o’Jabez Balfour, you ‘eard o’ E. T. Hooley, you ‘eard o’ Bottomley? Booligan, miv the pretty cash, was the worst o’ the lot. If ‘e was short a few bob, all ‘e did was write out a chit for torchlight batteries, an’ ‘elp ‘imself. Miv Sam Yudenow you play that game once. Once bitten twice, irregardless! The usherettes I supply miv torches. Torches, yes; batteries, no! They can see in the dark rahnd ‘ere, the layabouts. So never try that trick, young feller. Also, ‘specially of an evening, the salt o’ the earth stinks up the place, the miseries! Sam Yudenow begrudges nothing—there’s an insect spray an’ perfumed carbolic. Squirt ‘em in the intervals, in particular the ulcerated legs. A spoonful essence to a pint water, an’ squirt. But I want you should know it’s checked, the essence. Attar o’ carbolic, valuable. That Booligan, the hooligan, bought up a job-lot scent bottles an’ flogged it eighteenpence an ounce to the girls. I found ‘im out, an’ I’m telling you so you shouldn’t do it an’ get into trouble.
“Temptations o’ show biz! Oh, what a bastard ‘e was, that bugger Booligan! Every girl ‘e got into trouble. If ‘e looked at a ... a ... a brick wall, so it would bulge. Even a nurse ‘e got into trouble, that feller. ‘E got me into trouble. Oh yes, that reminds me: so there’s a jailbird—a welterweight; I backed ‘im to beat Harry Mason for the championship but ‘e gradually trampled somebody to death in some bar an’ went to Dartmoor for life, only it turned out ‘e was homicidal so they sent ‘im to Broadmoor for a criminal lunatic an’ gradually let ‘im out. Booligan got ‘is sister into trouble. This feller’s name is Rooster. ‘E’s the salt o’ the earth, right as rain; only one little fixed idear—so every manager o’ the Pantheon got ‘is sister into trouble. Goes about miv a meat chopper in ‘is pocket, a sixpenny Woolworth’s meat chopper. Pay no attention. Jolly ‘im along, whereas. But leave no mark.
“Can you ‘andle a typewriter?”
I said that I was not a touch-typist but that by diligence I had become fast and accurate enough with two fingers.
“That’s the difference between a man and a girl,” said Sam Yudenow. “My secretary takes both ‘ands. You want balls to andle a machine. Zize saying, if you can ‘andle a typewriter you can ‘andle a ticket machine. The inside of an automatic ticket machine is just like a typewriter. A screwdriver an’ gumption is what you need. I see somewhere in a book ‘ow a machine is kind o ‘uman sort o’style. My Automaticket machine is sort o’‘uman kind o style. To sin is divine: keep your eye peeled for ‘er—she gets the squitters. Once, this ticket machine, pressed dahn for one eightpenny, farted out two hundred and fifty fivepennies. An’‘ow d’you like that? Fivepenny tickets are yeller, eight-pennies are blue. Emergency tickets, just in case, are white. Machine gets temperamental, lock the bitch up an’peel ‘em off the roll.
“But you don’t need to worry about that. Mrs. Edwards looks after the ticket machine. She’s all right only she’s got change-o’-life, so she’s passionate. Every new moon—d’you foller me?—she gets convulsions. She goes doolally an’ she gives. Tickets she gives away. That idear knock on the ‘ead. Everything is looked after for you, as I dessay you begin to see. All you got to do is, put your ‘ands in your pockets like a gentleman an’ smoke—if possible, a cigar. Sam Yudenow wants all ‘is managers should smoke cigars. One thing, only one thing you better ‘ave: eyes in the back o’ your ‘ead. If you’re not careful everything goes up in smoke.
“Take, frinstance, your chief projectionist, Mr. Blossom. Blossom is an artist; only a week ‘eart ‘e’s got, asthma ‘e’s got, a chain smoker ‘e is, an’ all day long ‘e drinks tea. No naked—uxcuse me!—flame is permitted in or near the projection room in case o’ celluloid—in which case I’m the sufferer. But to Blossom turn a blind eye. Total disability pension because o’ mustard gas an’ shell shock. When ‘e collapses, the rewinding boy will make in Morse S.O.S. on the buzzer. Nip upstairs, take over a few minutes. If Blossom’s face goes blue, in a little box you’ll find glass amplifiers—crush one under ‘is nose so ‘ell ‘ave ‘ysterics and then right as rain. You’ve got that? ... Good!
“Blossom comes cheap so I let ‘im ‘ave a gas ring for ‘is tea in the projection room. Now I want you should remember, when the inspectors come, the coppers tip me the wink, if you foller me. Subdivisional Inspector Pin gives a tinkle from the station, an’ ‘e says, ‘Glad to ‘ear everything is perfectly all right.’As soon as you ‘ear that, get the gas ring out of the projection room, an’ snatch that cigarette out of Blossom’s mouf. If necessary, swaller it. Then, rush dahnstairs an’ count the Standing Room. If, as could ‘appen, you got one-two over—the arm in the thvoat, the ‘and in the arse of the trouser
s, an’‘Uxcuse me, please.’Remembering, mind you, no children in arms, an’ leave no marks.... The kids ‘ere are the worst o’ the lot. Make a bruise an’ the Society Prevention Cruelty to Animals ‘as got you by the left tit; an’ I’m the sufferer. Keep your eye open for old-age pensioners—they come in ‘leven o’clock miv something to eat an’ a primus stove, grab a seat in the aisle, an’ stay all day. Give ‘em two programs an’ then chunk ‘em out.... ‘Andle paste?”
I asked, “What kind of paste?”
Sam Yudenow said, “What kind o’ paste you think I mean? Joolry? Paste! Can you paste up a poster, a forty-eight sheet?”
“I’ve never tried,” I said.
“Good, a new angle—that’s show biz. It’s like sticking up a double-crown, only more so. Get to leeward, or windward, or something, an’it pastes itself up. Like a dove! Sam Yudenow makes you or ‘e breaks you. If in doubt, do it. ‘Live an’ learn’ is my motto.... I would like you should wear a ved carnation sleeping an’ waking. Grow a mustache. Elegance I want, elegance! If you don’t need glasses, buy ‘orn rims. Whatever ‘appens, don’t be like Booligan— you’ll be surprised the enemies that man made in Fowlers End. I think I told you, Fowlers End ain’t Park Lane? That’s up to you. Do so.
