The Magic Kingdom

by Stanley Elkin

  The Magic Kingdom

  Stanley Elkin

  For Joan

  CONTENTS

  I

  1

  2

  3

  4

  II

  1

  2

  3

  III

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  A Biography of Stanley Elkin

  I

  1

  Eddy Bale took his idea to the Empire Children’s Fund, to Children’s Relief, to the Youth Emergency Committee. He went to CARE and Oxfam and the Sunshine Foundation and, because he was famous by then, a famous griever, managed entrées to the boardrooms of Rothschild’s and British Petroleum, ICI and Anglo-Dutch, Marks & Spencer and Barclay’s, to Trusthouse Forte, to Guinness, to British Rail. He wrote to hospices; he wrote physicians on Harley Street and called at surgeries and hospitals. He spoke to high-ups in the National Health and dashed off letters to the national newspapers. He had an interview with Lord Lew Grade and worked up a proposal for Granada and the BBC. Because the idea was dramatic he approached the Directors of the National Theatre and the Royal Shakespeare Company. He had a sign made which could be put in taxis and minicabs.

  What convinced him his idea made sense, he said, was the fact that none of these children was under the care of a pediatrician. Not one. (Charles Mudd-Gaddis, eight, was being seen by a gerontologist.) They’d been handed over to the specialists. Specialists diagnosed them and other specialists treated them, if you could call their courses of experimental drugs and dollops of nuclear medicine and being zapped by lasers treatment. They were tortured not into health, he said, but into, at best, brief periods of remission. They died in pain, language torn from their throats or, what little language they had left, turned into an almost gangster argot, uncivilized, barbaric as the skirls and screaks of bayed prey.

  He spoke, he reminded them, from experience, and here his auditors looked away or cast down their eyes, for by this time there could hardly have been an adult in all the kingdom who hadn’t heard of the ordeal of Eddy Bale’s son: eleven operations in three years, the desperate flights to Johannesburg and Beijing; even, though the Bales weren’t Catholic, to Lourdes; and even, though they weren’t suckers by nature, to the gypsies—to anyone, finally, who promised to lift the curse. There had been a woman in Leek Street who read the toilet paper on which Liam wiped himself, and a witch in Land’s End who fed him the eyes of rabid dogs and the testicles of great sea birds wrapped in toad’s skin like a bleak hors d’oeuvre. Bale and Ginny together had all they could do just to hold him down long enough to get it past his jaws. When the stuff backed up he started to retch from his nose and the witch pinched his nostrils. “No,” she said when Ginny protested she was smothering him, “it’s supposed to mix with his puke. That’s what seasons it.”

  “You know what practically his last words were?” Eddy Bale asked the great men with whom he’d had interviews. “‘May I die now? May I die now, please?’”

  “Please, Mister Bale,” a Lord counseled softly, “you oughtn’t.…”

  But Bale was crazy.

  “Canisters!” he pleaded. “Just let me leave canisters with your publicans and newsagents. Let me put canisters in your tobacconists’ and greengrocers’.”

  There were dozens of angles. Eddy wrote quiet businesslike letters to top rock stars suggesting they do a ballad about these children. He wrote Elton John and the musician replied, sending along with his letter a haunting and very beautiful song he’d written which he said Bale could have so long as the composer’s name was never linked with it. Bale showed the song to the managers of half a dozen of Great Britain’s most important artists with no success. All recognized the song’s genius but refused to allow the people they represented to have anything to do with it. Eddy even got apologetic phone calls from two of the Beatles and a long overseas call from Yoko Ono. Once, near a recording studio in Hammersmith, he actually heard someone whistling the mournful, catchy melody in the street, but when he stopped the man to ask what the piece was and where he’d heard it, the fellow, a particularly vicious punk rocker Bale recognized from his photographs, became embarrassed and rushed off as if actually frightened.

  It was a question of taste. No one would say so; no one wanted to hurt a man who’d been through so much, who’d put the nation through so much. Two or three of the country’s biggest executives actually agreed that it was a wonderful idea for a promotion, worth probably hundreds of thousands to their firms, but when pressed declined to explain their reluctance to participate in his campaign. (Because even Ginny had abandoned him by now, having left just after burying Liam.)

  Though no one had to tell him. Eddy Bale may have been mad but he was no fool. During the four years of his child’s illness he had submitted to—and survived—many exquisite attacks of pained, assaulted taste and wronged form. He’d lived with camera crews, gone on the wireless, wept for photographers from the mass circulation dailies till he could have wept, participated in a hundred stunts and publicity tricks, become the U.K.’s most visible, most recognizable beggar. He’d gone door-to-door, his hat quite literally in his hand, to raise the close to one hundred thousand pounds that kept Liam alive. He sold exclusives to the press, each more humiliating than the last, drawing them forth from a reserve, a storehouse, a treasury of indignities, intimate detail—giving Liam’s public honest measure, unstinting, honorable as a craftsman, an artisan of the unspeakable: BALES DISCLOSE DETAILS OF DYING LIAM’S GROWING SEX DRIVE!; HOW THEY BROKE THE NEWS: PARENTS TELL TWELVE- YEAR-OLD ALL HOPE DEAD! (It was all they would accept, finally, passing over his and his wife’s suffering and the considerable heroics of the child’s determined resistance, ignoring Liam’s struggle, whatever value he might still have as an inspiration to others, defying human interest itself at last—once it was established he couldn’t live—homing in on the macabre, the exotic, all the screwy, built-in ironies of premature death.) And he was humiliated. (And Liam, a terminal fame victim, as interested as the readership itself in the vicious aspects of his own story, taking a sort of cold comfort from its documentation, in a way grateful that others could be drawn in, driven to cliché, weeping as his father read these accounts to him of his own last months—for he was too weak to hold a newspaper now—sobbing condolence—“I’ve suffered so much, my death will be a blessing”—and offering his comments almost as if he’d survived himself.) And said to Ginny what Ginny could at any time have said to him (for they were in this together, collaborative as kidnappers, hijackers, ideological as terrorists), their hearts’ mutual weights and measures, lashed by the same hope, doomsday’d by identical misgivings: “We’re mugs, m’dear. Ants at the picnic. They hate us. They despise Liam. They wish we’d go ’way and eat our grief like men. ‘Your father lost a father,/ That father lost, lost his,’ et cetera et cetera.”

  And if they were on Claudius’s side in this, why, so was he. So was Ginny. So, for his part, was Liam himself. Much as he was eager for others to know what he’d gone through, the child had despised his routines for television, for the press. “It’s mush, Daddy. It’s all cagmag and codswallop. And you know the part I hate most? The medical stuff. Pictures of my bone grafts, my deformed platelets, those awful blowups of my bombed-out retinas.”

  So because he could get nowhere with the country’s great public firms and private men, nowhere with the public itself (despite Eddy’s protestations that the money in this instance was trivial compared to what it had given him last time, twenty thousand pounds as opposed to a hundred thousand), he determined to take his case over their heads. He decide
d to seek an audience with the Queen.

  On the strength of a condolence letter—“My husband and I were distressed to read in the Times of your son Liam’s death. We have been following the course of your boy’s tragic ordeal and his valiant struggle. Our hearts are with you in this gloomy hour”—he wrote Her Royal Highness’s Appointments Secretary and was promised an audience just as soon as one could be worked into her busy schedule.

  Which is why Eddy Bale finds himself on a fine spring day at Buckingham Palace.

  He is dressed in a suit of black funeral clothes, the one he’d purchased for Liam’s burial service. He wears his mourner’s band, tight on his arm as a blood-pressure cuff. He is, he’s surprised to learn, not in one of the public rooms at all but in a sort of royal rec room in the Queen’s private apartments. To get here he has climbed the Grand Staircase and come down long elegant corridors behind a tall, slim young woman in custom jeans and a sort of country-and-Western shirt with the royal arms emblazoned on the back in an elaborate filigree. Her expensive Western boots seem to click on the carpet. “Bess normally sees subjects in the Appointments library, Mister Bale, but we’re fitting you in.”

  The young woman, who has not bothered to introduce herself, leaves him in a very high and plush chair beside a card table on which a Scrabble game is still set up. Eddy means to ask about the protocols, but she is gone before he can even frame his question. Bale is able to read a few of the words the players have formed and abandoned—“peasant,” “serf,” “primogeniture”—but a child of perhaps seven or eight, either a page or one of the young royals, comes up beside him, and Eddy glances quickly away as if he has been caught poring over state secrets.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Eddy Bale.”

  “You a commoner then?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Eddy tells the boy.

  “That’s all right,” the kid says. “Oh,” he says, “Bale. That was the name of that boy who died—Liam.”

  “I’m his father.”

  “Oh, I say,” the boy says, “he was quite a brave chap, wasn’t he? All those operations, all those heroic interventions and procedures. He won all us nobles, just walked off with our hearts. Many an aristocratic eye was moist when Liam succumbed. Did he really say, ‘I’m proud to have been English’?”

  “We never falsified an interview,” Eddy says uneasily but can’t recall the quote. He’s a little startled by the child’s T-shirt: Buckingham Palace in embossed Gothic above what would have been the breast pocket. It’s less outlandish than the rampant lion filigreed in tiny pearls and gold leaf on the blouse of the young woman who conducted him here, but somehow he would have been less surprised if the child had appeared in a tiny bowler or carried a miniature furled umbrella, cute, like a kid in a sailor suit. Perhaps, among themselves, the royal family—he is in their private apartments, after all—enjoys a bit of high-camp informality now and again. Perhaps it’s their idea of patriotism.

  Bale is uncertain about the child. He could be anything from a duke to a baron, could command the income on great estates in Surrey or collect the rents in downtown Leeds. He seems a kind enough young fellow, and Bale, who for all his interviews with the kingdom’s most powerful men, has never yet had audience with peerage, sketches his idea for the kid.

  The child hears him out and concedes, “That’s a smashing plot!”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Blast, I wish I’d the lolly, but I don’t come into my inheritance for just ages yet. Your troubles would be over if I did.”

  “You’re very gracious, Your Grace.”

  “Not a bit of it, Mister Bale. We all admired young Liam.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Twenty thousand,” he says, considering, stroking his chin, imagining ways it might yet be done.

  “Yes?” Bale says.

  “Well,” he says, “it’s just a thought, of course.”

  “Yes?”

  “We could put on a horse show.”

  “A horse show.”

  “Or sell lemonade.”

  “Lemonade’s a thought,” Bale says.

  “I know! We could hunt for buried treasure, raise the Spanish armada from Davy Jones’s locker. There must be just thousands of doubloons lying about.”

  “Well…”

  The Queen of England enters the family room carrying her purse. Bale rises and improvises a few courtesies. He completes his obeisances by pulling a chair out for his Queen on the other side of the Scrabble board. Queen Elizabeth II gestures for him to be seated, and Bale returns to his chair. The Queen is silent and Eddy clears his throat, is about to speak, when he sees that he does not have her complete attention. Covertly, she appears to be studying the rack of letters before her.

  They play for money, Eddy thinks; they play for trips and dogs and horses. They play for cooks and butlers, for invitations and the use of castles. They play for gossip and regiments. He is a long way from his cause, and he thinks not of the children—in any case he hasn’t come to save the children; now his old notions are tempered, toned, almost temperate—but of himself.

  He is calmer than he has been in months. Eddy Bale and the Queen of all the Englands are in a strange conspiracy of mood, she because she is Queen, unaccountable, irreproachable, the kingdom’s most private citizen as he is its most public beggar, and he because he has volunteered for scorn and is in the presence of one who has set all scorn aside, who has had it flushed from her system, an emotion not so much above her character—he doesn’t know her character—as beyond her biology, who could not have lived so long with such power and such privilege and not have dispensed with it, scornless from birth, from lifelong pet and pamper, public croon and cherish. Perhaps even surprise itself would be vestigial in her, useless to her as her appendix, and Eddy realizes he could not have offended her with his makeshift bowings and scrapings, his quick and nervous touch-flesh salutes. A woman who’s seen it all—though the empire is shrunken now—a queen shaped to tolerance and ceremony, who has sat in whatever place someone has told her to sit and observed all the strange dances of welcome, all the queer inverted struttings and high-souled arabesques and flashy, prescribed abasements and ceremonial mortifications, who has heard the odd music and seen the war paint—all the leaf mascaras, all the bark rouges and earth cosmetics, for whom the world and all behaviors are only a sort of anthropology and fierce loyalty, a kind of ethnic nationalism. She would never scorn him—for if he does not know her character she hasn’t a clue to his—and for a few seconds Bess and Eddy have this mutual moment. It’s as if—the child has left the room—they are married, in bed, side by side, reading…

  Which puts Eddy into a sort of remission—gives himself back to himself, that is—and for the first time since Liam died and Ginny left him, for the first time since he’s had his idea about the children or delivered his new pitch to his famous but secular patrons, he is suddenly quiet, not at rest but unobsessed. The refusals he’s so patiently listened to—and understood, and even in his heart embraced—from men who’ve listened so patiently to him, have depleted him; just arranging all the appointments that have so conflicted other people’s schedules has: living by deadline, his opportunities foreshortened—despite their patience—spliced into ten- and twenty- and thirty-minute intervals, and even his own eye on the clock, not, as you might think, because he has just so many minutes to make his point before he is politely dismissed but because he has buses to catch, underground trains, other appointments to make.

  And sometimes he wished they weren’t so matey, the chairmen and managers, wished they were as businesslike as himself, could forgo the cuppas and glasses of sherry, all the bright riffs of decorum, all the easy perks of the obligatory genteel. He apologized and declined whenever he was invited to lunch. A smoker, he refused even cigarettes when they were offered and, in his turn, and even when Liam was alive, withheld his own beggar’s knee-jerk God-bless-you’s, even when, as so often happened when Liam lived, he w
as successful. (Because Liam was appealing, even handsome, and lived—and died, by God—under the dreadful curse of his outside chances, his long-shot, high-roller, break-the-bank, one-in-a-million possibilities.) Because I am mad, he thought. Not so much grief-struck as driven. Ginny had seen it clearly and, though she’d been as tireless as himself while Liam was alive, wanted no part of this new business. Two hours after they returned from the cemetery, a taxi was waiting to take her away. (The taxi, like the food they’d lived on during their son’s illness—Eddy had taken leave of absence from his job in order to be with his boy—like their clothes and rent, like their phone bills, airfare, hotels, and utilities, like the cost of the boy’s burial itself, had been paid for from funds pledged to cure Liam, to keep him alive. Solicitors had put their two lives in trust, and just one of the peculiar results of their tragedy was that they’d come to live the managed financial lives of children of wealth, say, who’d not yet achieved their majority, or film stars on allowance, accepting doles and quarreling with accounts managers, dependent, special-pleading their special needs—though they were always merely Liam’s honest brokers: rails for the bed in his room, a remote control for his telly, down pillows, colored prescription lenses cut from blanks identical to the material that went into stained-glass cathedral windows—and both of them developing a sort of privileged rich kid’s cunning charm, turning them into nephews, nieces; a kind of undergraduate glamour, the exuberant flush of an overdraft youth upon them, the sense they could not help giving off—though it was never true—of people with gaming debts, their tailors and dressmakers unpaid, heavily into their publicans, their grooms and servants; a raffish couple, committed to weekending, to leisurely country pleasures, imbued with some nostalgic, almost larky spirit of the throwback, all the more—and all the more oddly—“modern,” for that the type had disappeared about the time they were born.)

  It was, of course, an illusion. Inland Revenue was far too conscious of them. This was no fiddle. No fiddle was intended, no fiddle would have been allowed. Nevertheless, their lives in receivership, they seemed lifted from responsibility, what they did for their child, even those terrible “exclusives,” a kind of sinecure, like a plummy-placed commissionaire, or the man who changed the guard outside this palace. And Ginny had absconded with the last of the taxi fare, throwing neither reproach nor their common loss at him so much as the diminished fact of herself, taking her weakened leave, so that the cabman had to help her down not only with her two or three bags but even with her umbrella, and she seemed, well, found out, undone, all in, cashiered, disgraced, ruined, sent down, as if she’d actually been the type she had—they had—merely seemed. “Where will you go?” he’d asked, the words, despite his sour mood, unaccountably sweet because of their melodrama. Because it was a time in his life when he had absolutely legitimate recourse to the great phrases of melodrama, when entire conversations were built around them, exhorting contributors, reproving medical science, comforting Liam, tongue- lashing God. By turns angry, enraged, or gently depleted as an actor, and, late at night, with Ginny, when they returned from hospital or while Liam still slept in the next room, all the heavy, distilled oom-pa-pa of crisis and crunch on him. When he’d outlined his scheme. And Ginny had called him Boots the Chemist. “Boots?” “You fill needs like prescriptions, Eddy.”