Madrigal

by John Gardner

  ‘Mostyn,’ said Mostyn.

  ‘Oh yes.’ The lady, one would not dare call her a receptionist, spoke in the hushed tones usually reserved for funeral parlours. ‘This way, please. He won’t keep you waiting for long.’

  ‘Walk the barrack way,’ whispered Boysie. Mostyn shot him a look edged with a volley of arrows that would have made Agincourt look like a dart-club outing.

  The room was large, the fireplace undoubtedly Adam, and the magazines surprisingly new. Last week’s Punch cheek by jowl with the latest Life. Boysie noticed his hands were trembling again. The old, old shakes, linked with a palsied tremor in the lower part of the abdomen. Mostyn buried himself in the Financial Times. Boysie lit a cigarette, paced the floor between deep leather chairs, and hoped. The ten minutes felt like an hour. Then the crisp lady returned.

  ‘This way, please.’

  They crossed the marble hall and were led up a staircase, wide and ornate, seething with the ghosts of Victorian mammas, papas, and scuttling tweenies; through the door at the top of the landing and into another world, another waiting room comfortably contemporary with a large reproduction of Picasso’s ‘Guernica’ slap in the middle of one wall.

  ‘That ought to make any unstable patient feel at home,’ said Boysie brightly.

  The door opened and a small, chubby-faced, neat man trotted in.

  ‘Colonel Mostyn. Nice to see you again.’ He extended a hand to Boysie’s Director, manners impeccable. Charm and a genuine aura of professional expertise surrounded the man. He turned to Boysie. ‘And this is Mr. Oakes?’

  ‘Mr. Oakes,’ introduced Mostyn. ‘Mr. Fox. An old and valued friend of mine.’

  Boysie put out his hand. The grip was firm, friendly. Fox, thought Boysie, was an apt name. The small man had soft red hair groomed precisely back from the forehead. Fox? Yet there was no cunning in the eyes, only a deep perception.

  ‘Fox?’ queried Boysie, aloud this time.

  ‘That’s right.’ A voice you could trust, but Boysie was not in the trusting vein.

  ‘Your name wasn’t on the door downstairs,’ he said.

  ‘Boysie.’ Mostyn quiet, at his most persuasive. ‘Trust, boy, trust. Mr. Fox and I have worked together many times. I want you to put yourself entirely in his hands. Do exactly what he says. He knows what it is all about.’

  Fox led them in to his consulting room—muted green walls, a desk, chairs, padded couch, and the inevitable bookshelves. Fox seated himself behind the desk, pen in hand. Boysie and Mostyn faced him. Fox pressed an intercom button on the desk and spoke softly into the mike. ‘I don’t want to be disturbed. No interruptions under any circumstances.’

  The recognisable voice of the receptionist came back with an affirmative. Fox looked from Boysie to Mostyn and back again.

  ‘It’s all most interesting,’ he opened. ‘I’ve listened to this fellow Madrigal’s performance—all the tape you sent over. At first I thought we might save some trouble and get him under the Hypnotism Act. You know, you’re not allowed to give public demonstrations of hypnotism without a licence from the local authorities? Unfortunately he is in the clear. Not only has our friend Madrigal got a licence, but also he is really a professor. Four years’ standing only, and it’s the University of Tiranë. But he’s a trained psychiatrist as well. No fool this one. Knows his stuff.’

  ‘Could he be doing what I suggested to you?’ Mostyn upright with hands clasped round the top of his umbrella.

  Fox doodled on the paper in front of him. ‘The old Svengali business,’ he said at last. ‘To be honest with you, it’s not out of the question. Depends whom he is dealing with. His technique is quick, and very good, but he can only put people into what we call a stage of light hypnosis in that short space of time. It’s not the ideal setting for the post-hypnotic suggestion he’s obviously using.’

  Mostyn grunted.

  ‘The fact remains,’ Fox continued, ‘we don’t know if he’s resorting to drugs. Fingering his subjects and having something like sodium amytal slipped into their drinks. Also, a lot is dependent on what he whispers to them. The actual wording.’ He stopped momentarily to complete a doodle with a flourish. ‘Thing is, we know they go to his place, and that can mean he is in a position to put them into a much deeper stage. Make them far more susceptible.’

  Boysie remembered something he had read. ‘But isn’t it true you can’t make a person do something against his natural instincts under hypnosis?’

  ‘To a point. But who knows what a man’s natural instincts are? There was a classic case of the woman Bompard in the late nineteenth century. She was accused of murdering her lover and pleaded she was under hypnosis at the time of the murder. All right. Under normal circumstances that woman would never have the moral intent or ability to murder. But deep down she could have easily wanted to murder her lover. Under hypnosis the act would be possible. Give her Dutch courage, so to speak.’

  ‘In other words,’ said Mostyn, ‘if Madrigal chooses blokes who are inclined to left-wing agitation, he stands a good chance of pushing them over the edge.’

  ‘Not just a good chance. The odds seem most favourable.’ Fox smiled. Boysie warmed to this quiet young man. He knew what he was talking about without making it into a production number.

  Fox was speaking again. ‘The problem, as I see it, is that we have to put a barrier between Mr. Oakes and Madrigal.’ He stopped short, hand to his mouth. ‘Mr. Oakes does know of his mission?’

  Mostyn nodded.

  ‘I’ve got to get a ringside seat so that Madrigal will go for me. I’m the lucky lad he hypnotises. The one that gets sweet nothings whispered into his ear.’ Boysie with a bitter twang.

  ‘Yes.’ Fox far away. ‘And you’ve only got to seem to be hypnotised. My job is to prevent our friend Madrigal from actually putting you out.’ He stood up. Right, Mr. Oakes—I believe they call you Boysie. Can I take that liberty?’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘Good. We’ve got a lot of work to do.’ He turned to Mostyn. ‘I think you can go away and come back for the , patient tonight. About seven? I shall probably need a final session with him tomorrow morning, and you can travel to—where is it? Manchester?—in the afternoon.’ Mostyn left them alone, and Fox began to pull the slatted shades to cover the windows. ‘Just make yourself comfortable,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Take off your coat, loosen your tie, off with your shoes if you like, then lie down on the couch. Head on the pillow.’

  Boysie obeyed like a trembling monkey. The room was dim now, and he could glimpse only the vague shadow of Fox standing at the foot of the couch. A click and a tiny spot of light appeared, suspended about five feet above the end of the couch.

  ‘Okay?’

  Fox’s voice close. The doctor was sitting beside him, to the right. Darkness except for the pin-prick of light.

  ‘Think we’ll have a little music to guide us on our way.’

  A piano started up from nowhere. Stereophonic. No, not a piano. A harpsichord. Bach’s Goldberg Variations. Boysie used to have the recording at the Chesham Place flat. Helmut Walcha’s version. Must get a new copy.

  ‘You know the piece?’ Fox asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bach wrote it for a friend who couldn’t sleep. Now you’re going to sleep. A special kind of sleep. Look at that spot of light and relax. Keep both eyes fixed on the light and feel your body relaxing. Especially your legs and the muscles behind your neck.’

  Boysie began to feel sleepy. His eyes stung. Bach mixed with Fox’s quiet voice.

  ‘Good. Good. That’s very good. I think you’re feeling too tired to keep your eyes open. Better close your eyes.’

  Gently Fox nudged Boysie into a shallow hypnotic depth. Boysie was conscious of everything said to him, yet unable to activate his body without Fox’s word.

  The first session went on for an hour. Fox brought Boysie out of the hypnotic state, and they had coffee and biscuits together.

  ‘I’m pushing it a bit,�
� admitted Fox, ‘but our time is limited. It’s got to be a quick one. Still, you’re reacting well.’

  Back to the couch. Much deeper this time, with Fox constantly talking about Madrigal and himself. ‘You’ll find I am the only person who can place you into any hypnotic level. Dr. Fox is the only person who can hypnotise you. Remember that. Dr. Fox is the only person who can hypnotise you, tell me that.’

  Obedient again, Boysie murmured that Dr. Fox was the only person who could hypnotise him. They continued, then broke again for tea. Boysie had lost track of time.

  On to the couch once more. Now it was different. Fox would put Boysie under very quickly and bring him out again fast, implanting ideas, suggestions. Tomorrow night someone else would be trying to hypnotise him, but he would not have any success. Boysie would react correctly, but this man, he had to visualise the man—Madrigal appeared huge and aggressive—would not have the power to bring any hypnotic talent to bear. Boysie would remember this just as he would remember anything Madrigal said. He would obey only Dr. Fox. Dr. Fox was his sole control. Tonight he would sleep peacefully and be prepared for the next day.

  *

  Boysie did sleep well, his first dreamless sleep in months. On the following morning Mostyn and Griffin picked up Boysie at his flat. They drove, in the Bentley, to Wimpole Street, and the final session began.

  The idea implanted on the previous day was hammered home into Boysie’s subconscious. By the time he left it was quite clear what he had to do. There was implicit faith in Dr. Fox.

  Just after noon Mostyn got behind the wheel of the Bentley; Boysie was beside him, Griffin in the back. They pulled away from the curb and headed for Swiss Cottage, then north to Apex Corner, turning to the left towards Aylesbury and then picking up the motorway. They were on their way to Manchester and Madrigal.

  Leicester and Derby went by. At last they made Stockport. Mostyn was adamant. Boysie was the set-up. They must not arrive together, so Boysie, with overnight bag and a wad of expense-account fivers tucked into his wallet, reluctantly left the Bentley to train it into Manchester. As Boysie slammed the car door, Mostyn leaned over, lowering the window.

  ‘By the way, old boy,’ said Mostyn, ‘just to make certain, I’ve booked you a table for the show. Right up front. Name of Oldcorn.’ He grimaced wickedly. ‘Don’t forget to tip the head waiter. Oh, and give us a call as soon as the operation’s completed. Griffin and I will be at the Grand.’

  Boysie ground his teeth and marched away. That was another thing that rankled. They were staying at the Grand. He had been booked in at the Palace. Boysie, as usual, never trusting Mostyn, did not like the idea of being split from his partners. As it turned out, the move was for the .best. The Palace was good and comfortable. Boysie rested, went over the procedure in his mind, bathed, shaved, and changed into a dark suit.

  For verisimilitude he arrived at The Hong Kong an hour and a half before the floor show was scheduled. Half an hour at the tables, he thought, then an hour for dinner. Play old Charlie’s system again. This time in pounds instead of hundreds. Unexpectedly, luck was with him. Thirty minutes netted ten pounds, and Boysie left for the Kowloon Room with a sense of supremacy.

  He ordered Perrier water with his meal. He could watch the bottle being opened. Fox said this was safe enough but he must drink nothing else. The possibility of hypnotic drugs was too great.

  The coloured singer had been replaced by another girl, white this time, trying to be Petula Clark and missing by two octaves. The same young man, the build-up for Mu-lan. Boysie squirmed in his chair. His table was dead centre of the floor and she spotted him almost immediately—on her first complete turn as she showed off that lovely body to the silent, appreciative audience. For a second their eyes met, and Mu-lan faltered. Throughout the whole business of dressing, her eyes returned to him again and again as though trying to speak—even as she took her call to the usual tumultuous applause.

  A waiter was at Boysie’s elbow with a glass. ‘A Grand Marnier with compliments of the management, sir.’

  ‘Oh, thank you.’ Hoping he sounded real. Could be the signal. He might already have been spotted. The lights dimmed for Madrigal’s announcement. With a quick move, Boysie drew the glass towards him, looked up in the direction of the compère, and tipped half the contents between his legs on to the floor. The lights came up for Madrigal’s entrance. Boysie’s eyes never left him once and, as good as he was, Madrigal could not resist at least two lengthy glances in Boysie’s direction. In spite of the surveillance, Boysie managed to get rid of the remaining liquor under the table.

  Madrigal had hardly changed his act, which still had a shattering impact on the audience. Boysie tried to keep his mind on what was to come, following Fox’s directions.

  Madrigal finished his thought-sketching effect and left the floor. There seemed to be a long pause before he returned. It was on. The mentalist had begun his hypnosis build-up. Hooked, he headed straight for Boysie.

  The technique was exactly the same as before, only this time Madrigal seemed to be pushing the words, trying to get Boysie into a deep stage very quickly. Boysie’s mind fought Madrigal’s relentless voice. ‘... relax the whole of your feet. Now the ankles and calves. The knees and thighs...’ Fox’s voice buried deep inside him repeating, ‘Take no notice of what Madrigal says to you. Do as he tells you, but retain control of your body at all times. Keep control of your mind. Only I, Fox, can hypnotise you. Madrigal cannot control you.’

  He was winning. Retaining his senses. Madrigal could not touch him or reach into his mind. The voice went on. ‘In one minute you will sleep as you have never slept before. You will be able to answer me but do nothing without me...’ Like hell I will, thought Boysie.

  Now Madrigal was counting. ‘...three...four...five.’ Boysie acted, closing his eyes with a sharp snap, keeping his body rigid and face a mask. From now on it was child’s play. He raised his hand when told to, did the wince and jump of pain at the simulated pin-pricking, pretended to fish and knock back a pint of beer.

  Now it was really coming. Madrigal talked to the audience about post-hypnotic suggestion. He gave the instructions. Now. Now. Madrigal was saying it. ‘... in order to plant the idea firmly in his mind I am again going to repeat my instructions by whispering them in his ear. Excuse me one moment.’

  Boysie felt Madrigal’s soft lips close to his ear. Then the voice, a whisper loud as a peal of bells. ‘You’ll do exactly what I have told you to do.’ The mind-reader was very distinct, speaking slowly and stressing every word. ‘You will also do one other thing. Tomorrow afternoon you will cancel all your appointments. You will dispense with all other loyalties and come to my apartment.’ Twice Madrigal repeated the address in Ducie Street. ‘You will come at exactly three-thirty tomorrow afternoon. We will greet each other like old friends. I will offer to tell your fortune. When the word death is said...when the word death is said, you will return to the hypnotic state you are now in. When I wake you in a moment, you will do as I say. You will forget about coming to my apartment tomorrow until you wake in the morning. Only then will you remember. If you understand, raise your right hand slightly.’

  Boysie lifted his hand half an inch. It would be shielded from the audience by Madrigal’s body. Half-past three tomorrow. Fortune-telling. Death. His mind was so active with Madrigal’s final words that he almost missed his cue for coming out of the trance. Again Boysie was a second or so behind Madrigal’s nose-blowing signal and the band striking up before he waltzed back to the table, feeling, as he observed to Mostyn later, ‘a right twit.’

  It was over. Tomorrow afternoon Madrigal would get what was coming to him. Boysie could hardly wait to dash back to the hotel and call Mostyn. Careful though. Calm. Don’t give cause for suspicion. The whole joint was probably loaded with Madrigal’s boys. Boysie stayed at the table, smoking a cigarette, wondering if Mu-lan would try to get in touch. Common sense told him it was too dangerous to make any move in that direction. The cigarett
e finished, Boysie called for the bill, paid, and casually sauntered out—three quid to the good.

  In the street he asked the doorman to get him a cab. The taxi drew up and the doorman opened the rear door, asking where he wanted to go.

  ‘Put me off at the CIS building, please.’ Boysie dropped half a crown into the doorman’s hand, pleased at the subterfuge. As the cab drew away he leaned forward to the driver. ‘Make that the Palace Hotel,’ he said, ‘will you?’ Unaware of the snazzy little red TR4A on the taxi’s tail.

  *

  Back in his room at the Palace, Boysie rang down for coffee and put a call through to Colonel Coots (even Mostyn was using a pseudonym) at the Grand Hotel. The coffee arrived as he waited. The hotel had a fast room service and a slow telephone operator. Finally Mostyn’s voice was on the line.

  ‘Coots. Who is that?’

  ‘Brian, sir. Sorry to trouble you but I’m afraid I’ve got to cancel all my appointments tomorrow afternoon. Got a date at three-thirty.’

  ‘You all right?’

  ‘Fine. Went like a dream. All in order, see you as arranged, sir.’

  ‘Good boy.’ Mostyn sounded happy as he put down the telephone.

  Boysie lit a cigarette and poured a cup of coffee. Four lumps of sugar, then a knock at the door. Boysie felt unguarded. He was unarmed and the message had gone back. He stood close to the door for a second, cigarette still between his fingers.

  Knocking again, soft but more urgent.

  ‘Who is it?’ hissed Boysie.

  ‘Me. Mu-lan. Quickly. Le’ me in’

  Boysie slipped the bolt and swung the door back. Her sweet smell, the scent of her body close as she brushed past. Boysie closed the door, and Mu-lan turned, her back to the woodwork, her left hand on the door knob.