by Wesley Stace
“Guess my name!” I didn’t want to put his ability on the spot, but I felt he was in a strong position to hazard a guess. “Look. I’ve written it down on a bit of paper. You guess it. It’s in the top pocket of my blazer.”
“George?” he said.
George and I looked at each other as though completely dumbfounded. “You’re a genius, Herr, Monsieur, Mister, Signore! Look in my top pocket.”
“Very amusing,” said Tower, though he was evidently not enjoying floundering after the motive for our visit.
“Aren’t you going to look?”
“I don’t need to. I’m sure you are right.”
“But it’s disappointing if you don’t look. Like the end of your trick on TV the other night. Anyway, how did you know?” He didn’t answer. “Did you ever know a boy called George?”
He thought hard about this. “No.”
“No?” Only a very proud man would deny it. I knew it was him: his bizarre reaction when he had first seen us loitering in the corridor, coupled with the silent mystery of his act, and the specific shuffles and tricks identical to those in my grandfather’s books; now the Italian, the name, his age. There could be no doubt.
“No.” He had recovered himself and was firm in his denial. “No. It was obvious, the name George. For the first, Romando made many beautiful dummies, and many were called George. Any scholar can know this. For the second,” he added with a self-deprecating shrug, “I am mesmerist, mind reader.”
“So, you are saying you don’t know me?” George and I were a little upset. It wasn’t how I had envisioned this reunion. “Would you recognize me better in uniform?”
“Your Romando is very beautiful. You know I am collector and I make my offer to buy. You are not for sale. You talk only through your dummy. I don’t know you.” He sat down and opened the newspaper again.
“You don’t know me?” George asked again.
“No. No.”
“I’m going to have to ask three times for obvious reasons.”
“I must ask you to leave this private dressing room. Thank you, sir. I didn’t know your name.”
“My name, as you well know, is George. You can find me here.” I handed him his silk, into the small pouch of which I had folded an official Crystal Clear business card with our name scrawled instead of Roger’s. With an imitation of his curt bow, I made for the door. “Good-bye, Signore Ettore Ansalone.” I’m sure his name was commonly available, so this shouldn’t have shocked him. “Thanks for the dead squirrel and the guinea pig.”
The surprise I saw at that moment was something Ansalone would have seen many times in the eyes of those he mesmerized. He knew it was a trick — it was all cheating — but he didn’t know how it was done. This couldn’t be the real George, could it? And how could we know these stories? In a second, he recovered himself, but he spoke with an air of apology. “I do not understand. I say good-bye.”
But he did understand. George winked one last time. Tower had already returned to Corriere Della Sera.
The rain convinced me to stay for the early show. This time I bought a ticket at the box office and was ushered in the front door. Offered a stage-side table, I demurred, opting instead for one at the back, out of the lights, where he would never offer me a card, never even know I was there.
* * *
The first episode of Fish Out of Water aired on the holiday Monday. Frankie’s offhand description of the job as “a paycheque” was a first. This epithet had only previously been used to disparage underachieving costars.
Unexpectedly, the show wasn’t the fiasco we had feared. The gags flew by, leaving barely a moment for your groan, as Frankie hammed and wiggled, occasionally proclaiming, “Very salty!” to canned laughter amped to a volume that bore no relation to our exhausted studio response. Ricky celebrated with a tedious running commentary and toasted the moment in self-congratulation. The relief that Frankie was emerging unscathed, combined with the bubbles, left us all light-headed.
For the pursuant promotional chat show appearances, Ricky stipulated that she re-present herself, in elegant evening wear, as an attractive mature actress. The pinnacle was a celebrity game-show appearance, where she covered herself in glory, winning a host of prizes for her civilian partner. The public didn’t know it — none of these spots had yet aired — but Frankie was back.
This return to the public eye was not on her terms, however. Recast in a certain light by Fish Out of Water, she had been offered a movie that she wouldn’t want us to see, an “upmarket adult sex comedy.” The project had Ricky’s full endorsement. He had put all his eggs in Frankie’s basket — their personal relationship had alienated other clients — and the sure way of making his percentage was to keep her in work.
Though Frankie asked George and my opinion, she was defensive when it was given and abruptly changed the subject with a disparaging remark about Dr. Hill. Ricky later took me aside, accusing me of making her life difficult. He knew we thought him a poor replacement for his uncle, a situation further muddled by their relationship: dinners were frosty. When her career had run itself, there had been no real need for any greater force than Good Old Desmond, calling his pals to fill her calendar, booking her two years in advance, ferrying her around, checking arrangements, writing the cheques, and doling out pocket money. But she had been in a bubble of Des’s making too long, and without his old-school influence, things had gone wrong.
No one was looking after Frankie now. Ricky didn’t have her best interests at heart; Queenie and Reg were too happy in their nest. Evie had done it once, at the expense of Sylvia. But now it was up to me.
Sylvia. I had never managed to write to her. In my head, I’d had it phrased perfectly, but on paper my sympathy looked flimsy. And I had a question for her: a question I couldn’t ask Frankie, that Queenie couldn’t answer. It was on the tip of my tongue.
After some debate, Reg gave me the address they had.
I wanted her to know that I knew. I would have wanted her to do the same for me.
Crystal Clear was boisterous in its praise for Fish, congratulating me on Frankie’s behalf. “Harpo!” Roger kept calling through the headphones without the least excuse. “Very salty!”
If I had been expecting any awkwardness from Brenda after our kiss, I misjudged her. What I had previously taken to be friendliness and sympathy — her open smile, her attention to my reading matter, the driving lessons, the lifts — was now revealed as a flirtation of which I had been quite ignorant. Her first look told me that she had, like me, let the memory linger over the weekend. After a day of self-conscious propriety, she offered me my usual ride home, casually asking if I wanted a quick drink. The moment we were in the car, we kissed. Her breasts pushed against my chest, our only obstacle the hand brake. “We’re not going to your place, are we?” she asked, the drink forgotten. “Mine, then?”
I was a mess of thoughts, excited, nervous.
“Everything OK? Just say if there’s a problem.” She reached over for my hand, and I realized that she was nervous too. I started to worry about practicalities: how stupid I would look, contraceptives (if, when, how), what time was too late to come home.
“Don’t forget George,” she said as we parked. “Not going to get much out of you without him, am I?”
Her apartment was done in the same colourful, bold designs she wore, patterns (I regretted) that had once been a little joke between Frankie and me. A bottle of wine appeared from the fridge, and she deliberately placed George next to me on the sofa.
“Someone’s going to have to whisper in my ear.” I liked the way she teased, but I waved her away, picked him up unceremoniously (with a muffled “Help! Help!”), and let the lid fall. I couldn’t stop myself thinking of the last time George had been confronted with this situation and felt bad for all of us, particularly Queenie.
“No three-way? Very cosy.” She sat beside me, knees together. At the same awkward moment, we sipped from our wineglasses. “George, I know thi
s is a little strange . . .” She left a brief pause before adding, “. . . because of work and everything. But I’m not after anything big. I’m happy to be friends.”
I let my body fall towards her. If I had been expecting resistance, there was none, and I found myself horizontal on top of her, my face sliding on her dress. This was how we stayed, communicating only through minute finger movements. She stroked my hair, and I traced the patterned surface of her bra. I was too gingerly to take the plunge, to explore the depths; due to the nature of the ensemble, the only possible access was from below.
After a few minutes of pleasant impasse and limbo, a lull I had no idea how to convert into frenzy, she extricated herself by silent mutual consent, going to the kitchen, where she arranged an irrelevant tray of crackers. A familiar Polaroid camera from Crystal Clear, one of the ones we used to record “sonic continuity,” sat on the kitchen table. She smiled. “Want to take a picture? Document the setup?” she asked. I nodded and had her stand in front of the closed curtains. “Shall I smile?” We watched intently as the picture developed, crackers sitting ignored before us, disco revolving on the crackly stereo.
“Oh, I look awful,” she said and tried to grab it, but I held fast. She didn’t at all. She looked as though she were just about to take her clothes off. “Let’s throw that one away, take another.” I shook my head as she tried to snatch it again. “It’s not leaving here, that’s for sure.” She lunged. I shook my head and ran away as she screamed. She thought she had me cornered behind the sofa, but I leaped over it, bouncing once on the cushions, and sought sanctuary in the only room available: her bedroom.
“Isn’t he bold?” She stood at the doorway in a parody of seduction. “What do I have to do to get that photo off you, George?” I lay on the bed. “Want to take another?” she said. I shook my head. “Are you sure?”
In one movement, she pulled the dress over her head. Problems evaporated: her dress could be either entirely on or entirely off, and it was now lying lifeless on the floor, as though the wicked witch had just melted from it. Brenda bit her bottom lip and threw a defensive arm over her bra; then, looking away for a moment, she let her arm fall. Her eyes met mine. Even without her dress, underwear covered much of her body. With the light of the sitting room behind her, she was a painting in the National Gallery, luxurious in the extreme, lavishly upholstered, her breasts cradled by a mauve-and-pink bra, her white Rubenesque tummy puffing out above her knickers, her waist with the lazy curve of a guitar. Who would have dared imagine what lay beneath her clothes? Who would have thought her so beautiful? Her manner in no way advertised this perfection.
“No more photos?” she asked, smiling. I shook my head and started to get out of my trousers. “Hey,” she said. “Stop.” I sat back down on the bed. “Don’t do as I do; do as I say.” Just before she joined me, she asked, “Light on or off?”
I could think of nothing worse than not being able to see her.
“Yes, on,” she said. “What have we got to hide?”
I woke continually throughout the night, unable to get over the novelty of the situation, but sleep finally came. In the morning I opened my eyes to find Brenda on her way out. She kissed my head and whispered: “I know you’re not coming in today. Let yourself out. See you Thursday.”
I slept a little longer and rose to find everything neatly tidied away. On the kitchen table was the Polaroid, beneath which she had written: “It’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for . . . Love, Brenda.” I looked through her zigzag dress as though it weren’t there.
I took the tube to Victoria, where I got the train south, a strange ride that shunted one way into Eastbourne and then reversed out again, which made the last part of the journey feel like a long ignominious retreat. I was in a daze, lost in the uncertain chronology of the previous night. From time to time I pinched myself by surreptitiously checking the photo, as though its public display would be offensive, as though anyone else could see what I saw. Opposite me, a man read The Sun. He turned his page, and I was confronted with the bland toothy smile of a Page Three girl.
Hastings Station smelled of piss, and mocking seagulls swooped above before settling in the rafters. I walked down an alley at the side of the station past a telephone box with every pane smashed out, receiver dangling limp, paper shredded all over the floor. It seemed rude to ignore the sea, so I walked along the front, beyond the closed amusement arcades, before a tiring walk uphill to the park. I began to regret George’s weight, and stopped at a playground to roll myself a loose cigarette that burned out quicker than I had intended. Two children played on the swings, screaming and laughing, laughing and screaming.
Number 14, Park Terrace was an imposing Victorian house converted into apartments. I looked at the three bells; none said Fisher. The basement flat had a separate mailbox, and there I found her. After a cold delay, a woman opened the door.
It was Sylvia, barely. Her features were careworn, her skin rough, hands bruised and torn like a bare-knuckle boxer. Her hair, the lustre and length of which I had allowed myself to file in my palace of memories as the archetype of all female beauty, was cropped short and the wrong colour. She looked at me blankly, not seeming to recognize me. Was this how I would have aged in eight years? Possibly.
“What do you want?” It was worse than her not recognizing me; she recognized me and wasn’t happy to see me. “Come in, then,” she sighed, angry at having to apologize. “Could have told me you were coming.” We walked down a bare corridor, past an uninviting and unlit sitting room, past the stairs to the parlour floor, which were blocked off. “Have they sent you for something?” I shook my head. She led the way into the farthest room, a kitchen where a plastic radio hissed sibilantly into the gloom. Dirty windows, too small for the room, looked out on a back garden she couldn’t use. “Sit down, then. Coffee?” I nodded. “Jesus, well, you didn’t come for the fucking conversation. Cat got your tongue?”
I didn’t recognize her. It was hard to imagine the sequence of photographs tracing her decline. I had expected a Fisher, a home, a life of her own. That’s what they’d always implied: not this.
“What’s in the box, then?”
I got George out. At last, she smiled. Then she laughed, but the laughter was as hollow as her eyes. “I don’t fucking want it. I’m the last person who should get it.”
I sat him on my knee. “Hello, Sylvia.”
Her look mingled disgust and disbelief.
“Oh, don’t you start. What a fucking circus.” She turned her back and put the kettle on. “I see they worked their magic on you too, didn’t they?” Talking away from me, she fussed unnecessarily with the kettle flex. “It’s instant,” she said, flicking the coffee jar, her voice quivering with uncertainty.
“They didn’t send us,” said George.
She slammed her mug against the kitchen sink. “You can leave right now. I won’t talk to you like that. I don’t fucking need it.”
“They didn’t send me,” I said. I was still holding my prop, doing fingering exercises inside him, but I didn’t move his mouth. What secrets did we have to hide from Sylvia? None. “I came because I wanted to see you. I wanted to ask you something. I kept meaning to write, but I never did. They told me about Reg being your father.”
Sylvia sneered. “Finally told you, did she? Well, there, you know. Thanks for that. You can go now.” She put two cups of coffee on the table, without the offer of milk or sugar. A scum of unstirred granules floated on the surface froth.
“This is real, right?” I asked — her catchphrase-that-never-was.
“Oh, shut up, George.” She stared resolutely at the side of the fridge. Her first sip made her relent somewhat. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s not you.” The pipes filled the ensuing silence with a screech and grumble. “How are you?”
“Getting better,” I said.
“I mean, are you in the family business or are you . . . ?” She didn’t know how to put it.
“I haven’t
been talking a lot recently,” I said in explanation.
She laughed without pleasure and shook her head. “You and me, George. Living proof.”
I let this identification hang in the air. The coffee was still too hot, but she was gulping hers.
“Family?” I asked.
“Couple of boyfriends, not that it’s any of your business. And don’t tell them anything about me, not about this house, not what I do, not how I live, all right?” I nodded. “And how’s little Miss Perfect?”
“Fish Out of Water.”
“Don’t watch TV,” she said, though I hadn’t mentioned TV.
“She’s doing well.” It was hard to look at her as I talked.
“Of course.”
“She had a rough patch,” I said, thinking it might help. “But she’s back now.”
“Yeah, well, so did I, and I still am, and I’m not fucking back yet.” The expletives she sprayed had a particular viciousness; there was no greater symbol of her estrangement from the family where a sotto voce “Bugger!” was the strongest possible expression of anger.
“How did you find out about Reg?” I asked.
“Evie. We were having an argument about Frankie, who was getting all the parts and always had done. I was being stupid, complaining that she had all the talent. And Evie says: ‘Of course she has all the talent.’ Of course! And we started a slanging match, and she told me. Just like that. ‘Where do you think your mother is right now?’ I can just hear her.
“We were all under her thumb. Vindictive old bitch, she was, punishing me for Mum’s sins. And I just decided I’d had enough. Cinderella did all right out of her, but the Ugly Sisters were fucked.” She switched the kettle on again. I pulled out my tin and rolled a cigarette.
“Give us one,” she said. Her fingers shook, and I took the papers back so I could roll one for her. She lit her cigarette and inhaled desperately. It made me want to quit immediately. “Swept it all under the carpet, they did. Quite happy to forget me, so they could go on as if nothing happened. Trade me in so they could live as they always had, just so Frankie could keep milking the golden cow.”
