Hi there!
He shouts: “Come on over! I don’t bite!…”
I walk up to him.
“Now, Ferdinand, show a little spunk! You’re going to see the grand challenge! Get your drumsticks going! Stay in perfect rhythm with me, follow me up close so I can hear you… Clack away, and then give me beads… droplets… ping… ping… ping… And keep looking at me!… Don’t take your eyes off me! I’ll show you Goa’s strength! I’m going to turn back traffic! I’m going to wipe out the police! You think I’m shitting you?”
A pretty tall order.
“Nah, you’re not shitting me!”
It was a challenge pure and simple. He steps down off the sidewalk, walks out into the street. The cop in the middle of the intersection can see him coming, blows his whistle, waves him back. The others stop short at the whistle – the buses, trucks, carts. Sosthène raises one mitt, then the other, in a dancing pose, takes another three-four steps, raises the long train of his gown, remains planted right in front of the cars, and brings everything to a halt. He folds his arms. They’re hollering something horrible, you can hear the angry yelling all the way over on Oxford Street. An explosion of honking and shouting. He’s blocking all of Piccadilly Circus, every lane, they’re squawking away at him from every angle. He stays glued to the spot, heroically. Then he starts chewing them out. “Beefsteaks!” he christens them. “Quiet! England, shut up! Goa’s the mightiest of all! U-turn!”
He wants to make them turn around.
“Come on out here and see me!” he hollers over at me. “Come on out here!”
He’s grown excited, works himself up, yells in a fit, takes off his little jacket, wants to sock them with a genuine dance…
“Play me your number ninety-two!…”
It beats me what ninety-two was… He reminds me.
“Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack! Clack!…”
I step back up on the sidewalk. I’m not going to play him a damn thing! He’s caused enough of a scene! He’s gesticulating, flailing about… pose ninety-two… now I recognize it… he’s throwing his arms around… contorting his body… working his face, everything… pretzel man!… A real workout… he’s not exactly a graceful guy… he pours it on… all right in his little chink of space?… The cars are practically on top of him… Roaring, growling something horrendous right up against him… All the bellowing end to end on Regent Street blurs the buildings in front of my eyes, the sidewalks start spinning, that’s how bad the air is roaring with rage from every cop as far away as Marble Arch rolling in on their bicycles, a rising storm of whistles drowning the echoing din, sweeping away the voices, the racket of engines, your eyes, your sight, your head, the whole shebang.
I can see the cop up there in his little raised platform, how he’s yelling his head off, red as a beet, hopping up and down trying to signal, exploding with anger. He bellows at Sosthène:
“Go away!… Go away!… Fool! Scum!”
But Sosthène can’t hear him… He’s jubilating, signals me that he’s in the seventh heaven of power. He points to the trucks, all the buses quaking before him, all the engines oozing, spurting, leaking because they can’t get going, grinding, cracking to pieces, shitting, puking. The whole huge messy herd, the monsters, spewing smoke, checked and cowed right there on the asphalt, yellow-bellied wimps. Ah! What a horrible sight… from the Empire pub all the way to the Royal it was just one big, stinking traffic jam – an eel couldn’t wiggle through without getting run over, a flea wouldn’t be able to find its kids. The traffic cop has had enough of wiggling his hips up on his little podium, trying to get Sosthène to clear off, he chucks the whole lot, his job, his little signal flag, his direction signs, his platform, the works, and climbs down to the cobblestones… Ah! He’s all hollered out… He’s a sideshow giant, got the build, the shoulders, the hands…
I can see his white gloves hovering above Sosthène, right over his head, he’s going to pulverize him, beat him to a pulp…
The other joker’s still dancing, back and forth from one foot to the other… tossing his head around in ecstasy…
“Will you stop!” the cop yells… “Will you stop, you rascal?” You can hear his voice he’s bellowing so loud… through the storm of tractors, he outshouts the lot – horns, screams, sirens, the mob of passers-by yelling on the sidewalks.
Sosthène was running in front of the cop, pirouetting past his clutches between the trucks, leaps, relevés, lively glissades, more pirouettes! The cop caught up with him… peek-a-boo!… This whole scene behind the buses! Quivering there, at least three thousand of them… right smack in the humongous traffic-jam racket, a zillion trumpets, horns, bells, sirens, pistons unleashed upon the roadblock between Charing Cross and Tottenham, a doomsday din. Death to Sosthène!
But then Sosthène, dancing like crazy, magical like nobody you’ve ever seen before in your life, lifted off the ground in his gown, swept up, whirling, an elf in the air, a miracle of grace, impish amid the buses, now he’s here, now he’s gone, a pixie, hide-and-seek, another smile, the Incantation Dance, all ninety-six poses from the Vegas, plus the cop on the warpath right on his ass, charging along, foaming with rage.
I looked on in awe, what else could I do, I wasn’t going to click-clack with my fork! He wouldn’t have heard me. I’d have been torn to pieces, end of story.
The huge cop rammed the buses, smashing in everything… Sosthène kept slipping between his fingers… He was light as a feather… lighter than a breeze!… And what an incredible kick the crowd got out of him! Thrilled to death! Delirious!
I decided to stay out of it, I just hollered along with everybody else. I egged on Sosthène raising hell with his copper, giving him the slip through the growling chaos, the herd of throbbing monsters. It was great sport, exciting…
“Go on, men!… Cut him off, you!…” And wah! Wah! Woo!… I mimicked the trumpets! What a ball! I kept my napkin ring in my pocket… and my fork… and my spoon… I didn’t want to attract attention… the soldiers also were having a blast. The buses were packed with khaki-backs… they got off for a better view of the chase… they start gesticulating like Sosthène… doing a snake dance… swarm over the sidewalk… surrounding the civilians… all the soldiers hand in hand… swept by the fever… There were boozehounds mixed among them, matchstick sellers, an entire cart of violets in the crazy hoopla, plus two seagulls and a sparrow flying right above Sosthène. I caught that last little detail. The mob left the sidewalks, invaded Piccadilly Circus, every last inch, the intersections, absolutely unstoppable, knocking the cops flat, the traffic bogging down, bringing everything to a halt, forcing the buses back, roaring like this… Brrroom!… Brroom!… Brroooo!…
Sosthène was ringmaster of the madness, he’d ripped open his gown, giving his whole heart and soul! Looking around to spot me! I ducked out of sight… The huge cop was bobbing along, caught up in the rollicking swirl. He didn’t know which way to turn… He was trapped, sucked, snatched, swept away by the snake dance… winding around the buildings and right out amid the cars… It slipped along everywhere like in a dream between the thundering buses, the raging herd of mastodons… Complete pandemonium smack in the centre of London, with nobody to blame but Sosthène! Ah! And there’d be hell to pay too, I was dead sure… Ah! I could already see the consequences to come, the retaliation would be something else!… I have a mind to fade out of the picture real quietly, thread my way towards Tottenham. But I couldn’t budge an inch backwards – the mob was way too thick – or move forward for that fact… I was boxed in.
And the cop was whistling!… Whistling his head off! Help! Emergency! He was done in! Crawling under the buses, dashing onto the double-deckers after catch-me-if-you-can Sosthène, who was twirling everywhere, leaping from roof to roof, bounding twelve yards into the air just like that, a mountain goat, a chamois, a fairy. Constantly bumping and denting his noggin was driving the cop nuts, he was roaring under the wheels, a lion man! He’d take these running pounces,
smash his face in, he’d torn off his trousers, his tunic, his uniform belt, charging around in the raw, on all fours after Sosthène…
“He’s thirsty,” this girl was saying, “he’s barking, he’s got rabies.”
I had seen just about my fill…
Right then came the clang of fire-engine bells in the distance… “Fire! Fire!…” Reverberating, echoing through the crowd…
Bong! Bong! Bong!
Sosthène starts dancing to that melody too… from one foot to the other… doing arabesques… each and every one joyous… loopy… and as energetic as the last!… With his hand… conducting the hullabaloo…
Bong! Bong! Bong!
This whips the dancers along like bats out of hell, the tail of the line slams into the walls, smashes up, squealing sharply…
The firemen move off into the distance… their bell dies away…
Just then there bursts onto the scene a huge swarm of cops, you could see them ganged up at the other end of the Circus, on Haymarket, a hundred at least, coppers in blue… I’m not going nuts, this is just what I figured… And ferocious, I’m telling you! A dam burst! Stampeding like a herd of cattle! That cop knew what he was doing with that whistle of his!…
They charge into the ruckus, come barrelling, ploughing blindly, smashing the jig with their fists, jostling, pummelling the circle of dancers, treading right on top of them, thrashing, trampling. The carcasses scream and holler, smashed to a pulp, gasping under the blows, heads reel, slam together, burst, there’s blood all over the place… Another swarm of cops rushes onto the scene. I slip away by the skin of my teeth! They miss me! I run! Quick wits! The buffaloes in capes are battering everything to death! Then it hits me all of a sudden – Sosthène, I don’t want him to croak! Shit, here we go again! Perfect!… Another bout of his sighing! What sort of excuse could I come up with? I hunt for him… call him… run out in front of the line of buses… spot him flat out on the sidewalk, with two huge suckers whaling away at him, finishing him off, one whacking with a nightstick, the other kicking with his boots.
“Over there! Over there!” I yell… I point to the other side of the street… as though there was some extraordinary sight to see… “Fire! Fire!” I shout to incite them!… It turns the heads of those two buffaloes… They head off in that direction growling in their lead-weighted capes!
“Ah! Master,” I go to Sosthène, “from the looks of your head you don’t have long to live… you’ve got blood running all over the place!…” He’s gasping in the gutter… His head’s trickling. I yank off his tattered gown… No way he’ll be recognized… people are still fighting in all corners, the excitement hasn’t flagged, the cops are clubbing everything in front of Lyon’s pub. We’re going to have a chance to disappear. I try to lift Sosthène, stand him on his feet.
He’s really been through hell, and how, his eyes are like jelly, his nose so swollen he’s got a couple extra nostrils. And he’s oozing blood from every pore.
They really worked him over.
“Your luck just doesn’t quit, dear master! Your show of power didn’t go over too well!…”
Right then an explosion of panic knocks us back on the sidewalk, and then the crowd pulls us along, we’re bobbing in the mob. In one way it’s a terrific break. He’d never have been able to stand up on his own two feet! His mouth’s full of muck, blood, hair, teeth, drool…
Little by little he spits it out on the people all around. Nobody notices. He wants to talk to me, instead he pukes. Coats me in chocolate. He gets yanked farther off… At last I catch him. In the chaos he manages to get out: “So, didn’t it go over?”
The news seems to surprise him.
“You’re going to catch cold,” I shout back.
The crowd pulls us along. A torrent moving towards Shaftesbury…
One second we’re choking, the next catching a breath of fresh air, back and forth, in fits and starts, depending… It’s skeleton-crunching time. I’m getting stuck with bones all down my sides. I’m squished flat against a shop. I spot Sosthène’s ugly mug, the blood dripping from his nostrils. He’s even lighter than me, bobbing on top of the mob. Luckily he looks almost handsome. He’s in just his shirt and briefs, both dirty and soaked through. He’s had a roll in the gutter…
At last we break free of the panic… the mob’s still howling as it leaves us behind. I stand off to the side with him, we duck into a small entrance. Now he can stand on his own two feet. He’s pretty much back to his old self, except for the blood running all over everywhere, from his ears too.
He asks me: “Want to go have a drink?”
I didn’t want to see him plastered again.
“No,” I go, “we’re heading back!”
We hop on a 114 bus – from Marble Arch we didn’t have far… they must have still been massacring each other over on Piccadilly Circus. My thoughts were still back there. All the rioting and ruckus couldn’t have been anywhere near over!
“I swear you made a fucking shambles of everything, master!”
The guy had to get it through his head that I wasn’t blind…
No answer… He kept dabbing his nostrils… Anyway I didn’t want to needle him. The main point was for us to get where we were going. I was antsy to see Virginia, find out what’d happened. While Sosthène’s blocking up his nostrils, pinching them to stop the bleeding, just like that on the upper deck of the bus I bring up what’s on my mind, rehash this latest scandal, his recklessness, how he had laid himself wide open… and how I had snatched him away from death and the blood-crazed cops…
This riles him up, he insults me, says I’m all to blame, that my cowardice made the spirits take off, especially Goa, that I had sabotaged everything, didn’t even venture a single click-clack at the fatal moment! So where was my napkin ring? My fork? I’d fallen short in every single respect! And it was a disgrace!…
He was sore as hell at me for not coming through with his click-clack. But hadn’t I saved his life? Look here, didn’t that count for a little something?…
He was bleeding badly from his beak, bruised around his eyes, the blood was dripping all over his body, filling his mouth, but he kept bullshitting through his clots, spraying the people sitting near us… the front of his jacket solid red…
“Let’s go,” I shout, “this is our stop!”
True, we weren’t far. I wanted to avoid any more big scenes. A short walk. We’re back in front of the house. His nose and eyes are still bleeding. I don’t want us to be seen like this. We slip down the lane, and then through the garden, the kitchen…
*
We had a lucky break. Uncle had just stepped out. He wouldn’t be back before evening. He was spending the whole day out shopping. He’d left for Ascot or some other racecourse at the crack of dawn.
I called up from the garden…
“Virginia! Virginia!”
She answered me right away, she was awfully happy, but hadn’t been worrying, just waiting for us, never once had she thought: “They won’t come back any more.” She trusted me. It was real sweet. It tickled me so much I kissed her right in front of Sosthène, I didn’t care… She asked me where we were coming from. She was curious even so. Plus Sosthène stuck out like a sore thumb looking the way he did, shirt in tatters, blood everywhere, black eyes. He’d lost three teeth, leaving a big gap in his mouth.
“He got run over by a bus” is what I told her right away to cut short any explanations. “We went to see his wife, she was under the weather, but she feels better now.”
He backed up my story.
*
We cleaned up a bit, splashed some water on our faces, put some food in our bellies. Feeling better at last. For me the whole thing was a joke.
“So hey, what about Goa? You got him up your ass? Ah! Whoah, not so fast!” I start from the top! I want to give Virginia a little laugh. I run through the whole episode for her, how he had made out in his battle with the buses. How he’d been worked over by the yobs fr
om Scotland Yard.
“Ah! What a sight, ma’am! They really let loose on him! Oh, my lord! Ah! The magic ordeal! Ah! Just hold your horses now! Ah! I won’t fall for that trick next time around! It was one hell of a workout!”
He gives a little laugh too, had to force it though, then snaps back that I left him high and dry, that I didn’t click-clack for him with my fork and napkin ring as I’d promised… that I’d been scared stiff of the cops… blown the whole business… that the power had really come to him… and we had it all in our hands… but that I had made it bugger off with my attitude… otherwise we’d have turned London topsy-turvy… sent all the cops scurrying like rats into the gutters… even as it was, the buses were completely broken down… and if that wasn’t proof enough for me, it was all because I had a chip on my shoulder and was even dumber than I was yellow-bellied, and that if I hadn’t thrown in the towel, and instead fished my napkin ring and fork out of my pocket, and accompanied him with my click-clacking, as we’d agreed… you would have seen such power gushing like a spring smack in the centre of Piccadilly Circus, overturning buses, an earthquaking transformation the likes of which had never been seen back in Bengal, where Goa Gwendor had nevertheless worked wonders, where the lamas of Ofrefonde concocted cataclysms for the whole world over, cosmic conflagrations that split the Himalayas asunder… and shook India down to Ceylon, and threw dark clouds on the moon, which you could see through a telescope… We might have seen all this in Piccadilly if I hadn’t chickened out at the moment of action… And after he had given it his best shot… in short, I had betrayed him…
“Some stuff the fighting troops are made of!” That was his conclusion… “Scared of buses!”
That’s what he’d come up with. To rile me in front of Virginia.
“Cyclones! That’s right, cyclones! That’s what I had under my feet… I could feel them in my dance… They were whirling in my butt… if you had given me a little clack-clack right then… I’d have sent Parliament up in smoke, and the constables, and Westminster… They were enveloped. But you saw for yourself in the Vegas! No click-clack, no rhythm! No guts! The magic vibrations dry up! I could keep dancing until tomorrow, wear my feet down to the bone! You don’t give a damn!”
London Bridge Page 41
