by Nik Cohn
At seven o’clock, directly after he’d finished his tea, Johnny was sent to bed. Motorbikes were revving up in the streets outside. His sisters were playing dominoes at the kitchen table, his mother was sitting by the fire with her eyes shut. The fire was on her face; fire and shadow, sound and silence. The dominoes rattled on the board and Johnny’s eyes were opening and shutting. The back room was very dark and he folded his knees into his belly. His eyes were opening and shutting all the time.
When he woke up, it was three in the morning and everything was still. Johnny rose up and climbed into his attic. Then he picked out five of his very finest turnips and arranged them in a line before the mirror. Then he sat down cross-legged behind them.
Johnny Angelo and a row of five watches: it made him happy and he sat watching for a very long time. He thought it was something quite beautiful and he wanted to keep it for ever, to trap it in his hand.
So he went out and stole a camera. At four o’clock in the morning he hurled a brick through a shop window and listened to the crash of falling glass. No one came. Johnny reached his hand through the hole and picked out the best-looking camera in the shop. He enjoyed this. He liked in particular the shattering of the glass, the jagged circle of the hole and the silence that surrounded him. And he walked home with his camera tucked openly under his arm, straight down the centre of the empty High Street.
Almost at dawn, he took pictures of his own reflection. Pictures of the five watches in a row and him sitting cross-legged behind them, pictures of him smiling and pictures of him looking sad. Pictures of Johnny Angelo.
The Doctor
Johnny Angelo was not a person who changed. From the time of his birth, he hated squalor, sickness and ugliness of every kind and he lived for style.
To the last degree he was fastidious. Already at the age of nine he did not tolerate his mother’s nylon stockings lying unwashed on a chair, nor his father’s stale tobacco, nor his sisters’ sanitary towels all crumpled in the trashcan. All of these things repelled him and drove him deep inside his attic.
He wasn’t like a child. He didn’t cry and he didn’t get excited. Instead, he passed his time in solitude and he wore a watch with live hands and he lived through days of 7 or 18 or 29 hours, according to his mood.
For a long while, he lived inside his bright red suit with the flowing white scarf and the white pompom on top of the hood. Even after he’d grown too big for it, he kept it in his attic and took pictures of its reflection. But rats nibbled it while he was gone, moths caused it to disintegrate. One day, he picked it up and it fell to pieces in his hands. He took the remnants out on to the neighbourhood bombsite and he buried it in a hole. His beautiful red suit, he folded it neatly and wrapped it in tissue paper and covered it over with earth. Then he went away.
When he returned inside the back room, his sisters were there, playing snap. Johnny Angelo lay in his bed and turned to the wall but his eyes remained open, he kept thinking of his bright red suit, buried in a bombsite. Of course, his sisters guessed. Their cards slapped against the kitchen table, they talked at him: ‘Johnny, I can see you.’
‘Johnny, I know.’
In school, Johnny Angelo was given a new uniform – his blazer was a deep wine colour and there was a yellow dragon emblazoned on his breast pocket. Also, he had a matching wine-coloured cap, complete with yellow bands and his socks were black, with wine and yellow stripes.
He stayed by himself. During break, he stood in some empty corner of the playground and was always the last to troop back inside the classroom. Not that he was shy: he cared about dignity, that’s all, and he had no wish to fraternise.
Similarly, he refused to undress in public. On the afternoon when everyone played football, he wouldn’t get changed, wouldn’t take his pants down. Simply, he thought it unbefitting and he sat without moving until all the rest were fitted out in their sky-blue shirts and silver studdings. His teacher called him names, the other boys snickered:
‘Johnny, who d’you think you’re kidding?’
‘Johnny, we can see you.’
‘Chicken Johnny Angelo.’
Still, he sat in front of his locker and wouldn’t budge. One true thing about him, he was stubborn at least and prideful and he never changed his mind. Even when his teacher got mad and hit him, he didn’t cry and didn’t smile but sat without moving and wouldn’t be budged.
For this reason, he was disliked. When he walked into morning assembly, for instance, everyone laughed behind their hands and pointed. On Johnny’s back, someone had pinned a notice and the following message: kick me says Johnny Angelo.
Johnny Angelo says kick me: he stood in some empty corner of the playground and, as soon as school was out, he went home to his attic.
Halfway down Mafeking Street, he met for the first time with the Doctor. It was mid-October and leaves swirled around their ankles. Straightaway, Johnny’s life was changed.
The Doctor was a man of middle-age, with yellowed flesh and yellowed eyes. Each night, he went walking through the neighbourhoods of the city and he stood in the shadows. On the dark side of the street, he would wait beneath a gaslamp and he wore a long black overcoat, a black slouch hat.
Because of this, his reputation was sinister and he was known variously as Doctor Sax, Doctor Spook and Doctor Kitsch. As it happened, all of these names were unjust – he liked to walk alone, that’s all, and he wore his hat pulled low across his eyes.
For twenty-two years he had lived by himself in a large house on Westmill Boulevard, almost a mansion, surrounded by high barbed wire. Late at night, returning from his travels, he would pace up and down in his study. A light shone from behind his back, his silhouette was framed in the window, his yellow eyes gleamed.
And that’s how Johnny Angelo knew him. Sometimes, when he’d been out stealing turnips, Johnny would pause beyond the barbed-wire fence and watch while the Doctor paced. The yellowed flesh, the black slouched hat – these things amused him and, later, he became aware of the Doctor beneath the gaslamps, or lurking up an alley, or moving silently behind his back, or simply crouching in the dark.
Johnny wasn’t made uneasy. Rather he was intrigued, attracted: he thought the Doctor was cute. Therefore, passing him by on Mafeking Street, Johnny went slow and hoped to be accosted. His golden hair fell forward across his eyes, his teeth showed very white. When he looked up into the Doctor’s face, the Doctor smiled. Then Johnny smiled in return and they shook hands on the corner.
The wind blew in spasms, the Doctor’s coat was lifted high around his knees. Then he held Johnny’s hand in his own, gently squeezing the fingers. ‘Little boy,’ he said. ‘What are you called?’
‘My name is Johnny Angelo: I live in the attic.’
‘You have beautiful flesh.’
‘I have a watch with five hands.’
It was almost teatime: Johnny Angelo wore his wine-coloured blazer with the yellow dragon emblazoned on the breast, his wine-coloured cap with the yellow stripe. He was almost ten years old. ‘Of course, we could always go to my house,’ the Doctor said. ‘Once inside, we could eat toasted scones.’
‘I think I’d like that,’ said Johnny, simpering, and they walked together to the house on Westmill Boulevard, while leaves swirled around the ankles.
Beyond the barbed-wire fence, the Doctor’s mansion stood black and gaunt and lonesome. Their footsteps echoed through the hallways and many empty rooms surrounded them, because the Doctor confined himself to a single room on the second floor and the rest of his house was deserted.
Hand in hand, the Doctor led Johnny Angelo out on to a balcony and they looked across the neighbourhood. Then Johnny shaded his eyes and he saw his own street, his own house, even the skylight of his attic. ‘From this balcony I can watch everything that occurs,’ said the Doctor. ‘Even the Sunday morning markets, where turnip watches are stolen in their dozens.’
Johnny Angelo was not embarrassed. Standing close to the Doctor, he didn’t feel threatened and he didn’t feel tense. In fact, he felt more at ease than during any other phase of his lifetime, so he laughed out loud and the Doctor also laughed and then, still holding hands, they went inside the Doctor’s study.
This room was the centre of the Doctor’s whole existence. For twenty-two years without a holiday, he had paced from one end to another and all of his life had accumulated within its doors.
It didn’t add up to much: on the hatstand, there were four slouch hats, all identical; pinned to a wall, there was the Doctor’s medical diploma; in the darkest corner, there was a heaped confusion of books and journals and pamphlets, gris-gris calculations and secret cures; and hanging from the ceiling, there was a single candelabra.
Apart from these items, there were also a handful of applecores in an ashtray, three guttered candles and a phial of verdigris. When Johnny sat down in a velvet armchair, dust rose up in clouds and made him sneeze. Nonetheless, this room was not squalid. Just gently decaying.
Meanwhile, the Doctor had disappeared inside the kitchen and was preparing an afternoon tea, namely toasted muffins, buttered scones and cranberry jam. When he emerged once more, there were crumbs all around his mouth and his yellow eyes were sheepish. First he took off his overcoat, his black slouch hat. Then he balanced his plate upon his knees, looking dainty: ‘I am fond of elegance,’ he said. ‘Grace and style in all things, the avoidance of tedium.’
‘I used to own a bright red suit,’ said Johnny. ‘I buried it in a bombsite.’
‘Precisely.’
‘I sit cross-legged on the floor and take many pictures. At four o’clock in the morning, I threw a brick through the window and my sisters were playing dominoes, the lightbulb was swinging in the draught. My eyes kept opening and shutting.’
Inside this room, everything was peaceful and Johnny sank down deeper in his velvet armchair. Soon he began to be drowsy and nothing mattered any more. Then the Doctor helped himself to a second buttered scone and spread it thick with jam. ‘Doesn’t truth get tiresome?’ he said. ‘When lies are so much fun.’
Johnny picked up a slouch hat from off the hatstand and placed it on his head. Straightaway, it slipped down over his eyes, skidded right to the tip of his nose and he looked ridiculous.
The Doctor laughed softly: ‘Do you take my meaning?’ he said.
‘I think so.’
‘Then have another muffin and come back again tomorrow.’
Beyond the Barbed-wire Fence
In his own back room, Johnny Angelo played Snakes and Ladders with his sisters. ‘Today I met with the Doctor,’ he said. ‘He fed me scones and jam.’
No one responded: his father was sitting in an armchair and his mother sat by the fire but neither made any reply. Meanwhile, the dice jumped and rattled on the table and motorbikes roared in the street outside. ‘He lives inside a mansion,’ said Johnny. ‘He held my hand and led me on to a balcony. Our footsteps echoed through the hallways.’
‘It’s your turn,’ said his sisters. ‘Throw the dice.’
‘He wore a black slouch hat.’
Johnny threw 9, landed on a snake and plunged all the way to 11. His mother was wearing a white nylon housecoat, scarred by many cigarette burns and his father was sunk in a secret dream. ‘Then he told me his philosophies,’ said Johnny. ‘There was a candelabra hanging from the ceiling. There was a phial of verdigris.’
Even the verdigris drew no reaction: his mother sucked a jujube and Johnny was offended. ‘Listen to me, I’m talking,’ he said. ‘I’m explaining the way it was.’
‘What was?’
‘The Doctor: the way he entertained me, fed me scones and held my hand.’
His father was sleeping now, his mother was putting on lipstick. The dice span on the board and his sisters kept climbing ladders. Then Johnny Angelo was desperate and he felt his watch all snug and smooth inside his pocket, purring like a great fat cat. ‘And he whispered in my ear,’ he said. ‘And he gave me wine, and he removed his black slouch hat, and his flesh was yellow like wax. When everything grew dark, he touched me with his hand.’
‘It’s your turn,’ said his sisters. ‘We’re waiting.’ Then Johnny got mad and he rose up without warning, he flung the board on the floor. Dice rattled against the windows, his father stirred in his dream. Johnny Angelo turned the table on its side and he kicked it and his mother sucked a jujube.
His sisters wept and Johnny went away. In the street outside, there were motorbikes everywhere and riders who wore black leather, with a silver crucifix that dangled from their throats. And Johnny Angelo walked through their midst, he wasn’t scared.
On the dark side of the street, he sensed the Doctor beneath a gaslamp but couldn’t trap him. Just behind his shoulder, just beyond his fingertips, the Doctor was elusive and Johnny chased him for hours, didn’t come home till midnight.
At this time, Johnny Angelo was still a child but he did not think and he didn’t speak like one. He had perfect white teeth, he had golden flesh and he walked by himself. He was repelled by squalor, drawn close by style. Already, he was conscious that he was set apart.
In school, he wouldn’t say his prayers and his teacher was insulted. ‘Johnny Angelo,’ said the teacher. ‘Why don’t you do right?’
‘Because.’
‘Because of what?’
‘Because I’m Johnny Angelo.’
And the next afternoon, he returned beyond the barbed-wire fence, and walked through the echoing hallways. He stood on the balcony and overlooked the neighbourhood. ‘I don’t feel so good,’ he said. ‘Time keeps passing and my life goes nowhere.’
It was the most beautiful day. The sunlight was caught by the crystals of the chandelier and the study was filled with refractions, darting and flashing like dragonflies. ‘Maybe I might help you,’ the Doctor said.
‘How?’
‘Maybe I could show you another alley to run down. Maybe I could teach you the ways of style and then your life would proceed.’
He was eating a chocolate-chip cookie, the Doctor, and he smiled a yellow smile that was sneaky at the edges. Even in this warm autumn sunlight, he wore his overcoat. ‘I might even create you afresh,’ he said.
‘Create me afresh,’ said Johnny Angelo. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Johnny,’ said the Doctor. ‘I think you might.’
Inside the Doctor’s study, the light was split into fragments and all the colours of the spectrum played upon the walls. Johnny Angelo moved in circles and his flesh was dappled like water. Then the Doctor munched a Turkish Delight and began to speak. ‘This is a story of my youth.’ he said. ‘I hope you like it.
‘When I was 25 years old, I travelled with Kid Clancey, the hired assassin. For four years we toured from country to country, town to town, while the Kid shot to kill and I dressed his wounds.
‘On the day that I first met with him, I was sitting in my bedroom, reading my medical textbooks, when I heard a gunshot in the distance and then footsteps pounding on the stairs outside. There was a ferocious hammering on my door, I opened up and in staggered Kid Clancey. Without a word, he went to the window, produced a pearl-handled Colt and broke the glass. Then he sheltered behind the curtain and watched the street.
‘At first, I was too much surprised to speak but soon I recovered myself and I came up behind him. “Now hold on, stranger,” I said. “What’s going on here?”
‘“I have just shot down Mario DeMario and now I’m being chased,” replied the Kid.
‘I didn’t object. As it happened, I had never heard of any such DeMario and wasn’t concerned, so I retreated from the window and went back to my studies.
‘Kid Clancey hid behind the curtain, staring at the street below, and a confusion spread throughout the neighbourhood. Crowds swept up and down
the boulevard, women screamed, dogs barked. Loudspeakers appealed for calm and lawmen assembled in squads. But time passed and nothing much happened – no shots rang out, no footsteps sounded on the stairs. Gradually the commotion began to fade. At the end of an hour, it had died out altogether and the Kid turned away from the window, he put away his gun.
‘He stood behind me and placed his hand upon my shoulder. He was dressed as a gangster, complete with double-breasted suit, co-respondent shoes, and diamond tiepin, and his fingers were ornamented with many rings, his nails were freshly manicured.
‘His hands were exquisite. Slim and strong and supple, they pulsed with a secret energy that was never exhausted. He had blue blank eyes, his face was expressionless. All of his life was carried in his hands.
‘Inside my room, he touched my arm but didn’t smile. “I wish to thank you,” he said. “You saved my life.”
‘I reached inside the drawer and brought out a bottle. The Kid drank deeply, his eyes wide open, and then I drank as well. So we drew the curtains and smoked cigars and we didn’t stop drinking until the bottle was empty.
‘After midnight, the Kid went to the window again and the street was deserted, so we went down the stairs together and out into the night. At the bus station, we bought two tickets to Decatur, we rode the Greyhound and that’s how I came to be Kid Clancey’s partner.
‘Why did I go with him? Because I thought he was nice, that’s all, and because I thought I would have fun.
‘When we arrived in Decatur, we sat for two days in a hotel room, drinking bonded bourbon. On the third day, the Kid made another hit and then we caught a train and journeyed through the Santo Grando, past Corinth and Holt and Pharisee, and so my life settled into its new pattern, I became accustomed.
‘What shall I tell you next? For four years, I travelled with the Kid and never knew a single moment of happiness or unhappiness.
‘Each time that we arrived in a different town, we locked ourselves inside a hotel room and waited. Kid Clancey sat on the bed and he filed his fingernails and polished them. There was a radio playing on his bedside table and I stood by the window, watching the street below. Three times a day, someone knocked on our door and we fed ourselves. At night, I grew restless and wished I was drunk but the Kid remained motionless. He kept on cleaning his Colt and his hands were perfection.
