“What’s the show anyways?”
“It’s a musical drama loosely based upon Dante’s Inferno. Such a shame . . . you would have loved it . . . great set pieces . . . Paul McCartney dragging behind him for all eternity the great weight of every unnecessary sentimental refrain that ever flowed from his pen... and a grinning Kurt Cobain who giggles when you tickle him... it was such fun...”
“Wait a minute, McCartney’s not dead,”
“Indeed he isn’t. And yet the depth of sentimentality must weigh heavy on his shoulders every day...”
His face was partially lit by a sign that stated Quiet Please above the curtain door, and as he spoke Amanda noticed that something was, well, slipping a little.
“Is that even real?”
“What do you mean Miss Palmer?”
“That moustache. Is it real? It seems to have . . . moved.”
“Why it is absolutely real. A 100% genuine finest handmade moustache by Dinsley & Sons, theatrical suppliers to Her Majesty the Queen. I assure you it is the envy of many here today.”
“What does the Queen need false moustaches for?”
“Some questions are best left un-asked Miss Palmer. This way please . . . after you . . .” and he parted the curtain and opened the door, gesturing for her to go through first.
She was momentarily perplexed by this moustache situation – why would someone wear a false moustache in the afterlife? - and thus paid little attention to where they were going. That is until the applause began, which caught her so much by surprise that she swung round violently, almost losing her footing, just in time to see the lights go on. They were walking across a stage. The spotlights were on them, or rather her, and, judging by the sound, it was a full house. The crowd was uproarious at the sight of her, but she didn’t know what she was expected to do. Of course, crowds didn’t scare her, she fully retained her self-possession and was about to do her notionally-patented-punk-curtsy when she felt the falsely-moustachioed man’s hand gently taking her wrist.
“Come along now, Miss Palmer, we’re nearly there. Let’s not get distracted . . . And mind how you tread.”
The applause slowly petered out as the audience began to realise this was not the start of the show, and, before she could regain her composure, they were off the stage and heading down another corridor. They came to a large mahogany door, stoically ornamented with a small brass plaque clearly stating Theatre Manager.
“Et voila. We are here. And this, I am afraid, is where I must leave you, Miss Palmer. I do hope you enjoyed the little journey . . . Just knock and enter. You are expected.” He turned to leave. Before she could think of anything to say he added “Don’t let him bully you now . . . oh, and break a leg, so to speak.” And he was gone.
“So,” she thought, “what next . . .” and was just contemplating whether to go right ahead and knock, or perhaps take a minute to digest what was going on, feeling something like a naughty schoolgirl outside the headmaster’s office, when a voice seemed to boom through the door:
“Miss Palmer, please come in.” It was a strong voice, vigorous and commanding, though this was undermined somewhat by the distinct and clearly faked German accent.
The door opened onto an undistinguished room, much as you might expect of a theatre manager’s office. There were old wooden filing cabinets, a large oak desk, a few chairs upholstered in leather, and the walls were predictably lined with bookcases, each considerably overfilled not just with books but also ornaments, props and various loose papers. But it was the man stood behind the desk that immediately caught her attention, or rather his extraordinarily oversized moustache.
“You’re not fucking Nietzsche!”
****
“Indeed, Ich bin nicht more Herr Nietzsche zan yung Hardy who brought du hier ist ein Englischer gentleman. But it seems to micht zat die question du bist really asking ist more ‘Is all zis eine product of your own imagination or is it real?’ by vich du no doubt mean ‘is zehr some external independent influence involved in zese things?’ Vell, Ich bin nicht really at liberty to answer such direct questions, but, and zis ist strictly off ze record, let us just say zat vee supply die substance, and zat you supply die vindow dressing. Alzough naturalicht any answer I give ist necessarily no answer at all.”
“Okay . . . so you’re some sort of male authority figure that I am perceiving as Nietzsche.”
“Zat’s zie idea, zough Ich bin really more of ein psychological evaluator. And I must say it is interesting zat du habe chosen to project me as Herr Nietzsche. Most people go for Freud, or Jesus, or zeir mutter . . . Ich had Oprah recently. Haven’t had Nietzsche for quite some time . . . Of course I only verk in die Vestern vorld. I’m sure it gets a whole lot veirder die further east you go.” By now his accent was distinctly slipping, and causing him some difficulty. “Look, do you mind if I drop the voice?” he said in a more middle class, but equally fake, nasal New York tone.
“No, no, absolutely, feel free.”
“And to answer your other un-asked question, that being “what is it with all the moustaches?” Well it seems moustaches, and particularly false moustaches, have played a pivotal role in your life, hence their predominance here.” And with that he began to stroke the enormous bush of a moustache that bedecked his upper lip as if to demonstrate the point until suddenly and somewhat dramatically he banged both hands on the desk.
“So! . . . Please, Amanda, might I call you Amanda? Please, do sit down. I imagine you probably have some questions.”
“Well, yes, I probably do . . .” She paused for a moment. “I died. I get that. I guess I was kinda expecting the whole shebang. You know, life flashing before me, bright light, family there to greet me... And what do I get?” Her voice rose a little in both volume and pitch. “Someone else’s life! Someone who seemed to get unimaginably old and a whole bunch of grand-maternal pride thrown in for good measure! A camp Englishman in a false moustache taking me on what can only be described as a run-around! And now my head is being “evaluated” by Nietzsche, or should I say a man wearing an absurd moustache who can’t keep up a German accent for more than a few sentences! So yes, I have some fucking questions! Like . . . what the fuck is going on?!”
“Hmmm, you didn’t get it then . . . the “run-around” . . . shame . . . I know Hardy put quite a bit of effort into it. Still! Limited by circumstance I guess. And what a circumstance! Most unusual. Even unprecedented, in my time anyway.”
Amanda leant forward. “Listen. Is there anything at stake here? I mean, are there consequences? You said “evaluator.” What I mean is . . .”
Leaning back on his chair so as to keep the distance uniform: “You mean am I evaluating you now? No, it’s nothing like that. My job is more to help you evaluate yourself. So no consequences, permission to speak freely and all that.”
“Okay so spill it then. What is going on?”
“Right . . . So . . . Yes . . . Well, there has been something of what you might call a clerical error. Just a minor one, but regrettably there have been repercussions . . . Particularly for you . . . and for another Amanda Palmer, of Wilmington, Ontario, come to that . . .”
“. . . What do you mean clerical error? And repercussions?”
He raised his finger as if to command silence. “I’ll cut to the chase, so to speak. You see we were expecting you both, and at almost the same time, on the scale of things that is. And we had a great show planned for each of you. But then, what with her enthusiasm to get here, and your reluctance . . . well, you see, you arrived in the wrong order. She got your life and you got hers . . .”
Amanda was understandably baffled by this.
“This has never happened before I assure you . . . Now, of course, we put everything on hold as soon as we realised. But unfortunately these things can’t be recycled. Which leaves us with something of a problem, that being: what do we do with you now?” He noticed a distinct look of concern pass across Amanda’s face at this and so added “. . . to amend
the situation that is.”
“You mean you’ve screwed up my death?”
“Well not the Death itself, that was conducted admirably by all . . . more the processing thereof. But fear thee not. There’s always a way around such things. We’ve just got to find it. Well, actually there are a great many potential ways around this. But I have always prided myself on being fair. And I feel it is only fair that you should be given a say in the matter. That’s off the record, naturally . . . And after all, I am the Big Boss here, head of department, senior management so to speak . . .”
“Okay . . .?”
“You really didn’t get it then . . . Hardy’s little show . . . it didn’t feel . . .” here his words hung in the air, a little like a question but with additional hope, “. . . symbolically significant, in any way? . . . Hmmm, shame. Still I’m not at all surprised. It was clutching somewhat at straws.”
“What was I supposed to get?”
“Supposed is really too strong a word. Hoped or encouraged might be more on target. Well you see normally . . . hmmm . . . How can I explain . . . errrm . . . The way it works is this. A client, or rather a person, passes over, right? Now obviously that can be quite a jarring experience. I mean one minute they’re running a bath, or tickling a small child, or heading to the corner store with every intention of buying 35 cherry-candy-shoelaces, (that was my last case), and the next, poof, its all over, they’ve run down the curtain and joined the choir-invisible.” He seemed quite proud of this quotation, even attempting an almost recognisable English accent, adding under his breath “Accents were never really my thing.”
“Anyway, that’s where the whole life flashing before you thing comes in. It’s in many ways the completion. Or conclusion. No, more completion really. Comfort’s balm for the yearning Soul, as we like to say. The victim . . . errrm, person, who has passed that is . . . is presented with a kind of recapitulation, all freshly prepared here by us: to relive in an instant their entire contribution, to see it as a whole, complete and perfect in its entirety. We tie up all the loose ends so to speak. And once our work is done all that remains is a carefully crafted sense of self-satisfaction at a life well lived, and they are ready for the next level. Forgive me if I am not being entirely clear here. These things are not well suited to expression through words, as with all the finer things in life . . . or death come to that.”
“I think I’m getting it.”
“And, you see, that’s the point. We’re supposed to be invisible: stage hands in the final drama; the unseen mechanics who work the illusion. And, well, it all seems to have gone a bit tits-up this evening. Now here you are talking to me! Unprecedented! Really . . . And as for Mrs. Palmer . . . that doesn’t even bear consideration . . . And that’s what Hardy’s little show was all about. We were kind of hoping it would all just click for you. A little optimistic I know. But needs must where the Devil spits, so to speak.”
“Hardy’s little show?”
“Yes, what you called the run-around. The intention was to somehow show you your life, and bring you that contented feeling of completion through the subtle art of metaphor. Hardy’s idea, he always was a poet at heart, though admittedly not a very good one. And the truth is he had very little to work with, and at such short notice too . . . You might want to thank him later by the way. It was somewhat beyond the call of duty.”
“Ok, you have lost me now.”
“Let me talk you through it.” He began rummaging through the contents of a desk drawer, then triumphantly looked up, waving a piece of paper covered in handwritten notes and diagrams. “Here we are . . .” and he took a moment to look over both sides of the paper.
“Right. In brief: It started with nothing, emptiness, a blank slate waiting to be filled. Then a door, a way through, you begin to find your direction, your purpose. And then you come upon a ladder, a way up, a shortcut to finding your place in the world. Although of course this has to lead to a long dark tunnel, for there is no achievement or reward without effort. Not in that life anyway. But you struggle on, determined to see it through to the end. And lo, you rise from the ashes, being the fireplace, into the full glory of civilisation, as symbolised by that rather fine Queen Anne drawing room, with particularly comfortable armchairs . . . it says here that you noticed that feature . . . Now many folks might have stopped there, with all the comforts of civilisation to satisfy them. But not you. Not Amanda Palmer. Oh no. You have to create a mountain, you need to climb still further . . . though just why that was symbolised by towering piles of furniture I am not entirely sure—I guess we had a lot of it available—and so you make your the way to the very top. Now, that takes you backstage at a show of your own devising, and yet you are still uncertain as to what the show is really about, and the applause you receive feels, to you anyway, unjustified. You are honoured but not truly understood, even by yourself, that is until you arrive here, in my office.” He puts the paper down on his desk. “And there you have it! . . . your life revealed in all its many completenesses . . . Of course being a metaphor it works on many other levels. I mean think about it. Is that not the way a song comes into the world? Or a perfect description the evolution of most human relationships? Does it not outline the very spirit of Adventure, of Passion, of the whole Human Experience? And therein lies the perfection of your completeness . . . I guess that didn’t quite come across . . . indeed the usefulness of metaphors can be limited at moments of great import.”
Amanda wasn’t sure quite how she was expected to react at this point, but had the distinct impression she was being given the hard sell. “So . . .?” This was more of an encouragement for him to continue than a statement.
“Well, you see, that is the beauty of it. Your life was an expression of your Art, and your Art an expression of your life, the two perfectly in balance, one journey writ both large and small, with too many symmetries to even consider. To continue beyond the moment of your demise would have sent the whole grand edifice toppling. And really that wouldn’t do now would it?”
“. . . Guess not.”
“So you’re happy then. You get it.”
“I guess.”
“And you feel completion. You’re ready to move on . . . to the next level . . .”
“Well . . . I . . . no, wait. Do I have a choice then?”
“Well, in theory I suppose you do. But would that not be a tremendous aesthetic error? I mean, consider the legacy, your legacy. What you have worked towards all your life. You are on a cusp here my dear.” Amanda winced inwardly at the dear word, but considered what was being said too important to interrupt. “On one side there is Jim Morrison, on the other, Iggy Pop. Keith Moon or Ringo Star. Buddy Holly or Cliff Richard. Brian Jones or Ronnie Wood. I could go on. You have earned the chance to become a legend. Of course, no one can guarantee what will actually occur. But the chance is there, and really should not be wasted. To die with the eyes of the world upon you is a glorious thing indeed. And there is also the death itself to consider. Why it was perfect. The timing, the means, the execution . . . You will remain forever at your peak, the pinnacle, your very greatest of moments. Your fans will most likely canonise you. Here lies Amanda Palmer, she lived and died for her Art.”
“And how exactly did I die? I mean, what happened?”
“You don’t remember? Oh no, of course you don’t . . . but that’s not really the point. The point is . . .”
“No really, I’d like to know. I remember . . . there was blood . . . no, it’s gone.”
“To be honest we don’t actually have that information to hand. But I bet it was a good’un. It had to be good, what with the show they laid on for you . . . were planning to lay on that is, before this little problem occurred. I haven’t seen so many midgets in years. Not all in the same place anyways. And their rendition of the Siege of Leningrad, well that was . . . genius. Sheer genius. I laughed until it hurt!”
“Ok, Stop! So let me get this straight. I died, by some undisclosed manner probably invo
lving a lot of blood. Somehow you seem to have misplaced my life, or rather given it to someone else, and now, through a series of crude metaphors you are trying to convince me that dying was the right thing to do. Am I in the ballpark?”
“Well, basically, yes. I suppose you could put it that way. But would it not be better and more appropriate to see this whole experience as a kind of post-punk expression of mortality?”
“Fuck that! What I am getting at here is: why are you trying to convince me? I mean, why does it matter what I think? Surely you can just send me wherever it is I am to go, regardless. Unless . . .”
“Come now, Miss Palmer. A wise soul knows when the time has come to die. Only a fool would choose to linger on whilst all their life’s attainments turn to dust about them.”
“Now I know you’re spouting bullshit. What is that? Some kind of self-help guide for the recently deceased? I would have thought the time for platitudes was over now . . . and by the way, your moustache is slipping.”
He pressed the excessively large squirrel of a moustache back into place.
“Please, Miss Palmer, don’t rush to judgement here. It is my job to ensure your . . . how can I put this . . . let’s say cleansing of the grime of life before you continue onwards. And as I said, that normally is a simple, almost automated process. But here I am having to do it by hand, so to speak. So please do bear with me. This isn’t easy you know. And consider for a moment poor Mrs. Palmer. How do you think she feels? Having led a polite and God-fearing life to the age of 92 she now finds that she is a risqué performance artist who parades about in stripy stockings. The revelation almost gave her a heart attack—that is had she not already died of one. So please, stop thinking only of yourself. Consider the rest of us.”
“Excuse me! I’m the one whose death has been cocked up by some administrative error. I think I have every right to be pissed!”
“I suppose you do. Anyway . . . where were we . . .”
“And what happens if I refuse? If I don’t play ball. What if I like the grime of life and don’t wish to be parted from it?”
On the Many Deaths of Amanda Palmer Page 8
