by Paul Theroux
‘Why are you smiling?’
‘I’m not smiling.’ Was he? What did that mean? ‘I’ve got something stuck in my tooth.’
‘Is there anything in the paper?’
‘No.’
He left for work, glad to be free of the house, the stale air of the sickroom. He crossed the frontier of the Thames and was restored by the fresh air in the solider part of the city. He chose the Embankment route to the Aldwych, walking behind the Savoy, pausing at the statue of Arthur Sullivan where the heartbreaking nude sorrowed on the plinth; then along the neat paths to the stairwell below Waterloo Bridge. The graffiti howled from the walls, unpronounceable madness and the threat that had become so frequent: ARSENAL RULE. Two homeless old men bumped their belongings down the stairs in prams, like demon nannies with infants smothered under teapots and ragged clothes. The men and their prams were secured with lengths of string. It was an omen: soon the whole population would be shuffling behind laden prams, crying woe.
His reflection was interrupted by the tickets he had been lumbered with. Who to take?
In the course of the morning he worked through a short-list. The receptionist yawned at him. Not her, an any case: people would talk. The messenger, Old Monty? He had a room in a men’s hostel in Kennington. A clean man, he smelled of carbolic soap and was always speaking to Mr Gawber of weevils and black beetles and how the other men never changed their shirts, and how they left the bathroom in a mess. He had been in an army band: Aldershot, Indian camps, Rangoon. ‘I should have stuck with the clarinet,’ Monty said. He’d enjoy a play. Mr Gawber risked the question, but Monty said, ‘I always do my washing on Thursdays.’ Rodney, the stockroom boy? Rodney brought fresh pencils at eleven o’clock, but with a clatter that hurt his teeth. In such a careless gesture he saw the boy would resign one day soon. It was the pattern: they became clumsy, then they quit. Not Rodney.
‘Ask Ralph – can’t you see I’m busy?’ said Thornquist irritably waving a secretary away.
And not Thonky.
Sadly, the inevitable Miss French. But she said, when he approached her, ‘I hope you’re not going to ask me if those letters are typed. They’re all here, just as you gave them to me. I couldn’t read your writing.’
He was proud of his handwriting. It was a good uniform hand, sacrificing loops for a workmanlike clarity. The woman was lying. Not her.
He picked up the phone and dialled. There was a buzz, a jumble of clicks, then, ‘– but if I sell now at thirty-three I’ll be out of pocket to the tune of four thousand.’
‘By tomorrow morning it will be five thousand,’ said another voice.
‘Sell now,’ said Mr Gawber, and hung up.
He took out the business card and confirmed the Kingsway address, found the entrance and just inside on the wall the name Rackstraw’s on a column of varnished boards. He ran up the steps three at a time and met the receptionist who, with headphones at rest on her neck, was reading a magazine.
‘Mister Gawber, please.’
The girl looked up from her magazine. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘No.’
‘You’ll have to take a seat.’
‘I’ll stand.’ He saw the girl return to her magazine. Then he said, ‘You can tell him I’m here.’
‘There’s someone ahead of you.’
‘I don’t see anyone, sweetheart.’
‘He’s got an appointment. He’s not here yet.’ Now the girl was not reading, but simply holding her elbows out and flipping pages to avoid facing another question.
‘I wish you’d do something. I’m in a hurry.’
‘I’m doing everything I can.’ She didn’t look up. ‘This is a busy office. Appointments only. That’s the rule.’ She turned the pages quickly and shook her head. ‘I don’t make the rules.’
An elderly man in a dark blue messenger’s uniform came through the outer door. He stopped at the desk and made a swift reflex with his heels.
‘That packet’s from Mister Thornquist,’ said the girl crossly. ‘It was supposed to be delivered an hour ago to the City. By hand.’
‘Sorry,’ said the man. ‘I was doing the post.’
‘The post doesn’t take two hours, Monty.’
‘Parcels,’ said the man. ‘They wanted weighing.’
‘Listen, Monty, that packet’s been sitting there –’
‘Back up,’ said Hood striding over to the girl. She was startled. He said, ‘Why are you talking to him that way?’
‘I’m sorry but –’
‘Cut it out. Don’t use that tone with him.’
The man stared.
Hood said, ‘Don’t let her talk to you that way.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said the man. ‘I was just going to say that myself.’
Hood turned again to the girl. ‘If I catch you giving him any lip I’ll come back here and slap your ass.’
He walked past her to the office door.
The girl stood up. ‘You don’t have an appointment.’
‘Move over, sister,’ said Hood with such fury the girl sat down and twisted her magazine in both hands.
Hood marched through the office of typists quickly, saw a glassed-in cubicle in which Mr Gawber was working at a desk, and headed for it. He knocked and went in.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Gawber rising, trying to remember the name.
‘Valentine Hood.’
‘Exactly,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘I never forget a face. I should be royalty or a tax inspector or a politician. Cursed with total recall! Lower Sydenham – about six weeks ago – and your friend.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘It’s gone – what was his name? But his face is there, oh his face is there!’
‘He wasn’t a friend of mine,’ said Hood.
‘Of course not. Nasty piece of work, wasn’t he?’ Mr Gawber made passes with his hands. ‘Now do have a seat – what can I do for you?’
Hood said, ‘You told me that if I ever had a financial problem I should come to you –’
Mr Gawber listened with apprehension. He took a pencil and holding it like a cricket bat said, ‘I’d like to interrupt you before you go any further. I might have given you the wrong impression. We’re mainly a firm of accountants, which means we don’t handle loans or mortgages. Some people think – and I don’t blame them one bit – that we’re bankers.’ He batted with the pencil. ‘Chap was in here last week, sitting where you are now. Tradesman, I imagine. Awfully nice chap. Wanted some cash. Had to tell him he’d got the wrong end of the stick. Bowled!’ Mr Gawber studied the pencil he had been batting with. ‘He was terribly creased. There are so many misconceptions about this business.’
‘I didn’t come for a loan,’ said Hood.
‘I’m so glad you said that.’
‘Mine’s more a question of procedure, about directing funds. I’m sure an accountant should have the answer.’
‘I couldn’t agree more.’
‘I’d like your advice on transferring money to another person’s account without that person knowing where it came from.’
Mr Gawber leaned forward, as if he hadn’t quite heard the proposal. He had heard, but a detail bothered him: when a man said ‘person’ he always meant a woman.
‘I owe this person some money,’ Hood went on, ‘and the person will be offended if I just hand it over – pride, I suppose. The only solution is to transfer it. From an unknown source, as they say.’
‘How much is outstanding?’
‘A lot, I’m afraid. But I’d like to transfer it in instalments, a certain amount every week.’
‘Does this, um, person have a bank account?’
‘Yes,’ said Hood.
‘Then it’s really quite simple,’ said Gawber. ‘I don’t know how they handle these things in your country, but here –apart from Coutts, lovely old firm –banks don’t specify the source of funds on the statements anymore. The money comes in, it’s credited and that’s the end of it. There might be a deposit notice, though –a chit t
hrough the post. Your name might appear on that.’
‘Or yours.’
‘If we acted for you.’
‘It would simplify things,’ said Hood.
‘I couldn’t agree more,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘Now if you give me the name of the young lady’s bank and the account number –’
‘I didn’t say it was a young lady.’
‘Of course you didn’t!’ Mr Gawber blushed and he rubbed his eyes in embarrassment. ‘Why did I think that? I’m terribly sorry – you must forgive me.’
Hood smiled. ‘No problem. It’s a young lady, all right. Here’s her cheque. The account number’s on the bottom.’ He unfolded the cheque he had torn from a book in Lorna’s handbag.
‘Weech,’ said Mr Gawber, examining the cheque. ‘That rings a bell. I’m good on faces, but so bad on names. Should I know her?’
‘No,’ said Hood, and attempted to distract Mr Gawber with the details of his own account.
Mr Gawber wrote on a pad. He said, ‘Very odd. I hope you don’t think I always go canvassing for new accounts in the public houses of Lower Sydenham. That was my first time in the area. A little mix-up. But I told you, didn’t I? It started with a crossed-line on that telephone. Had another one this morning. But what an extraordinary day that was. I suppose you’ve forgotten all about it.’
Hood said, ‘I’d better be going.’
But Mr Gawber didn’t want him to go. Hood was more than a witness to that day; and now he recalled the other fellow, a tough rowdy man whose every word had alarmed him. Hood had not been afraid – he had stood between them and given Mr Gawber a kind of protection. He was tired now. That night’s sleep lost. Norah was paying for her disruption, but he needed someone, a little company. Alone, depressed, he would think only of the catastrophe. He said, to stall Hood, ‘No, you’re absolutely right.’
‘I’m off,’ said Hood.
‘No, I couldn’t agree more,’ said Mr Gawber. He doodled on his pad. ‘We’ll have to tighten our belts, like everyone else.’
Hood rose and backed to the door of the cubicle. He said, ‘I’ll write you a letter to make it official.’
‘You’re not going so soon?’
‘I’m wasting your time.’
‘Not at all – I’m enjoying our little talk,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘Have a cup of tea. I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything stronger.’ Tea: he remembered. ‘I say, Mr Hood, do you have any plans for this evening?’
11
Like filing into church, but the wrong one. Mr Gawber felt very tired and wayward, and he paused with Hood in front of the theatre deliberately to anger himself. The critics’ praise was displayed like gospel verses on a Baptist motto-board, calling doubtful people in: I LAUGHED TILL I CRIED – THAT RARITY, A SHEER DELIGHT – RELIEF FROM THESE DARK TIMES – I BEG YOU TO SEE IT! – THE SADDER MOMENTS ALSO RING TRUE – IT DESERVES TO RUN AND RUN – A SHATTERING ACHIEVEMENT – I DIDN’T WANT IT TO END! He knew there was even an organ inside, flanked by boxes that might have held choristers. The lobby had all the carpets and brass of a presbytery, and there glassy-eyed people smoked, chattering excitedly, searching faces for friends, a commotion of tenative greeting. Clerical-looking ushers in dark uniforms stood at attention, tearing tickets near the doors to the stalls. The people passed by them, entered the theatre – a stupendous hollow temple trimmed with pagan gilt – and dropped their stubs: an attitude of sombreness that was almost stately. Churchgoing for them, too, but they were reverential.
Mr Gawber bought a pound of chocolates. It was a habit. He excused himself and fell into that queue as soon as he arrived, and then he tucked them under his arm, and picking up the tickets at the box office – a slight thrill seeing his name importantly lettered on the envelope – led Hood to the seats. They were down front, so near to the footlights they could hear the mutters of stage-hands behind the curtain pushing furniture into position. Then Mr Gawber sat with the box of Black Magic on his lap, wearing an expression of extreme anxiety, as if he expected the place to catch fire at any moment; or a bombing? Public places had become terrorists’ targets. He hugged the box and stared at the curtain. It was more than discomfort – it was a rapture of fear on his face so keen it could have been mistaken for joy.
‘Looks like a full house,’ said Hood, and saw Mr Gawber’s grasp tighten on the chocolates. Allowing the old man to escort him, Hood had experienced a son’s cosy serenity. Mr Gawber had acted with polite conviction, almost gallantry, steering Hood down the Aldwych, occasionally warning him about pick-pockets, and apologizing in advance for the play he promised would be appalling. But Mr Gawber had said little else. His guidance was unobtrusive – paternal nods that were helpful and mild and with a hint of pride. He was like the father who remains silent because so much is understood; and Hood was relieved that no brightness was demanded of him. He had been unwilling to go to the play, but he had nothing better to do, and Mr Gawber had shyly insisted: ‘I’d consider it a great favour.’ Now, seated in the theatre under a sky of lights and paint he felt he had stumbled into an anonymous pause, outside time, like a formal reverie which would leave him empty. He expected nothing of the play but for it to end.
The mutterings from behind the curtain grew louder, the bump of furniture quickened, and the curtain itself bulged on the backs of the stagehands. There was a crash and a muffled cry: ‘Balls!’
‘This is the part I like,’ said Mr Gawber.
Hood glanced at him, puzzled. He wondered if the old man was cracked. The curtain had not risen. Mr Gawber relaxed and clasped his freckled hands.
It happened again, porkers’ grunts preceding a wooden thud that made the hem of the curtain dance.
‘Forgive me,’ said Mr Gawber, shaking with laughter. He snorted into his handkerchief. He was enjoying himself now, his look of fear replaced by a cheery appreciation of the random bangings. This, for him, was the only comedy: harmless error, unplanned and unexplained.
The house-lights dimmed, silencing the murmurs in the audience and bringing a hush like piety.
The curtain went up on a modern kitchen the width of the stage, as efficient-looking as an operating room, with chrome and bright fittings and a muted yellow decor. Sunbeams leaned against the windows. A large stove, a refrigerator the size of a wardrobe and a series of oblong cupboards at eye-level, one with its door open revealing shelves crammed with cans of food: there was a gasp of approval from the audience. On counters that ran between the appliances, and on a table at the centre, cooking paraphernalia had been set out – spice-jars, bowls, a pitcher of milk, an electric blender, copper pots and whisks, ingredients in cartons, and a varnished firkin labelled Flour.
‘That’s the kind I want,’ said a woman behind Mr Gawber, biting on a chocolate wafer.
‘Looks awfully expensive,’ said the man next to her.
‘But there’s masses of working surface. Nice units. Fitted cupboards. Vinyl.’
‘Is that a gas cooker?’
‘Electric,’ said Gawber softly to himself.
A red light flashed on the back panel of the stove and a loud buzzer rang. It rang continuously in the empty kitchen and after a minute of this piercing sound a ripple of mirth – embarrassed, expectant, then confident – ran through the audience, responding to the buzz. This unattended signal mimicking rage, went on for another few minutes, causing hoots and finally shouts of laughter.
At the side of the stage a door opened and a woman in an apron rushed across the kitchen. She was recognized by the audience and applauded. She acknowledged this with a small girl’s pout. She was a plump, aged woman with loose heavy arms, brittle make-up, stiff blue hair and a wet drooping mouth. She wore bracelets that flopped and tinkled above the sound of the buzzer. She glared at the noise, making impatient passes with her hands.
‘Blanche Very,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘She’s an old timer. Norah loves her. We saw her as Ophelia at the Hippodrome in Catford. That’s going back a few years.’
The buzz droned on. Bl
anche Very took a wooden spoon from a counter and whacked the control panel, magically stopping it. This sent the audience into peals of laughter. The hilarity depressed Hood; and Mr Gawber sat with his mouth fixed in a grim bite.
Blanche Very drew on a pair of thick red mittens, then peeked through the window of the stove and groaned – more laughter: it was abrasive and forced – and pulled the oven door open, releasing a tremendous cloud of black smoke.
‘Knickers!’ she cried, bringing out a tray of burned scones.
The audience was now hysterical and a woman sitting near Hood was stamping her feet and wiping her eyes and nearly gagging with croaks of merriment.
‘It’s her timing,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘Can’t see it myself, but there it is.’
For the next several minutes Blance Very measured and sifted flour, broke eggs, poured milk and banged about the kitchen, making each busy gesture into casual blundering and repeating it when she raised a laugh. At one point she opened a cupboard, revealing another assortment of food, impressive for the size of the packages and the way it was stacked, from top to bottom. There was a significant hush in the audience at the sight of it that did not quite conceal an envious hunger.
– Now let’s see here. ‘Baby’s Bottom Muffins’. That’s it.
She worked from a hefty cookbook, which she held up in one hand and read slowly, satirizing the recipe by giving it a Shakespearian stress and intonation. As she spoke the side door opened and a man came in. He wore slippers, clenched a newspaper in his shaking hands and puffed a pipe. He was recognized and applauded.
‘Dick Penrose,’ said Mr Gawber. ‘They’re married. I mean, in real life. Though Norah says it’s touch and go.’
Penrose winked at the audience and Hood saw that all the movement of the head and hands was not for comic effect but rather an elderly twitching that was uncontrollable. It was as if he was being pelted with acid. He shook and walked arthritically, fooling with his paper, blowing on his pipe. Like the woman, he was dressed and made to look more youthful than he was. The programme notes described them as ‘a childless couple in early middle age, perhaps forty,’ but their pinkness was powder. Hood saw two old people in clown’s masks.
