by Rhys Hughes
Many ingenious methods of ending her tawdry life suggested themselves to me. Most of these, however, contained some fatal flaw that became apparent with a little more thought. The idea of sending more roses to her room, thorns coated with poison, was abandoned after I realised they would cause momentary pleasure before death. Similarly, my notion of surprising her down an alley—bounding out of the night on a spring loaded shoe and lunging with sharpened umbrella—seemed less promising when I recalled that eyes as close-set as mine are incapable of judging distance.
Eventually, I could restrain myself no longer. I picked a definite date for her demise and resolved to keep to it, no matter what. As the date drew near, I wrote you a passionate love-letter, an epistle declaring the way I felt about you, but I was too shy to post it and I kept it in an inner pocket of my frock-coat. In this letter I rhapsodised about your elegant gooseneck, your inviting f-holes, your coquettish keys, your sensuous G-string, the way you bowed out with such good grace.
I took my umbrella apart and replaced the struts with special rods of my own, so thin that they were scarce visible to the naked eye. I grew a sort of beard to disguise my features; I dyed my frilly shirt purple. I turned my waistcoat inside-out and practised uncharacteristic expressions in front of the mirror. When I had perfected these, I merely had to wait for the fateful day. It came round soon enough and I made sure that I had a seat in the front row of the concert hall.
We were in the garrison town of Aldershot and so the audience was packed with jeering soldiers who shook fists and brayed for more Beethoven. I knew that their riotous behaviour would provide useful cover for my own actions. During the Schoenberg—played to appease the mob—I began to dismantle my adapted umbrella. I removed the rods I had placed there and screwed them to each other, feeding them out across the empty space betwixt auditorium and orchestra. The improvised lance started to reach closer to your owner.
Within minutes, the point of my weapon was poised over her very heart. Thinner than a human hair, the rods remained unseen by all. A little push and happiness would finally be mine. I looked at you then; I blew a subtle kiss with my absurd lips. In my mind’s eye, I saw you in a bridal veil—lace and petals. Yet I could not pierce her heart, I did not transfix her callous bosom. Instead, my hand trembled; the rods broke loose and shattered upon the floor. I gnawed my knuckles in anguish. Why? Why had I spared her ignominious soul?
The answer, let me tell you, has haunted my dreams ever since. Had I impaled her there, she would have relaxed her grip on you. Her hands would have flown to her breast and you could have slipped out of her grasp and injured yourself in a fall. Worse still, it is conceivable that her colleagues—in rushing to her aid—would have trampled you underfoot. It was a risk I was not prepared to take. So she escaped to live another day and you remained her prisoner. Forgive me, my darling.
It was obvious I would have to kill her at a time when she was parted from you. Such moments were rare. She was extremely possessive and did her best to keep you close at all times. Or else she entrusted you to the care of her fearsome lackeys. There were many of these: rogues and monkeys, lazy diamond-studded flunkies. I despaired of ever finding a chance to spill her blood without exposing you to the horror. It was essential that I shield you not only from danger, but also from any sights that might disturb your impressionable spirit.
As the orchestra became better known, it seemed only a matter of time before they were invited to play abroad. Although they had performed once in Scotland, they had never sailed across any sea to reach a foreign audience, much less one that slept in the day and applauded in a different language. But now they were off to Spain, the lush and verdant lands of Galicia. Your owner could hardly refrain from smiling and making tiny jumps for joy. She had been chosen to mark the event with a grandiose gesture. On disembarkation, she would plant you in the ground and the entire company would kneel and offer up thanks. In sooth, they were all excited.
I withdrew the last of my savings from my account and purchased a berth on the same ship. I need scarcely mention my fear of water. Yet I was willing to conquer my terrors for love. We set sail from Portsmouth in a storm; the ship shuddered and lurched across the perilous Solent. In the bar, I overheard her whispering to you. ‘You are a sweet darling. I enjoy your caresses best in the morning.’ She was drinking heavily. I could do little but gasp. Had I misjudged her feelings?
I was so intrigued by this possibility that I actually approached and tapped her on the shoulder. I offered to buy her a drink. To my utter astonishment she did not seem repelled. ‘I recognise you,’ she said. ‘I attend every concert you play,’ I replied. A frown creased her brow. ‘Was it you who sent the roses?’ she asked. I shook my head and she heaved a sigh of relief. ‘You are very ugly,’ she pointed out. ‘But I don’t really mind. Unless you try to kiss me.’
If this was a short story or other work of fiction—rather than a factual account—something unlikely would occur at this point. I would continue to buy her drinks. I would wait for her to lurch drunkenly back to her cabin. I would follow and seize her. Perhaps I would kill her by driving your own spike through her throat. Almost certainly I would cut off her head and conceal it within your body. When it was my turn to play, the head would augment the strings with ghastly singing. The story would end with it rolling its eyes to the coda.
But I did nothing of the kind. Choked with sorrow and sea-sickness, I left her alone. I hopped my way from the bar out onto the deck. I felt my whole life had become a retch. I steadied myself against one of the rails. Suddenly, a freak wave swept me over the side. I swallowed brine and coughed. When I looked up, the dark mass of the ship already seemed out of reach. A face was peering down from the departing vessel. It was she! The next thing I knew was that an object was floating in the water near my head. An object of gracious curves.
It was you. I reached out and hauled myself up and we began to drift away. Your owner had cast you to me in lieu of a life-jacket. She called down to me, but I could not make out her words. To this day, I do not know whether her actions were born of a fundamental contempt for you or a desire to make the ultimate sacrifice for what she thought was her one admirer. I both suspect and fear the latter. At any rate, I clung on fast and three days later we were washed up on the exotic shores of the Isle of Wight.
We lay exhausted on the multicoloured sands. I kept you warm with my frock-coat and reassured you with my oily words. At the same time I confessed my long-standing love. You were sceptical at first, but then I showed you the love-letter I kept in my innermost pocket. The ink had run, the letter was illegible, but you had faith; I like that in a cello. Eventually, help arrived and we were given mugs of coffee and ginger biscuits, as is the custom amongst those islanders.
Life is strange, my darling. We made our way back to the mainland and I set you up in my house. We heard no scrap of news from Spain; we had no idea how the orchestra had performed without you. Indeed, we never again received any word about them. I do not know where your old owner is now, or even if she still plays. Whatever the case, I am certain her opinions have not changed; they remain as old as green hams. She believes the world is flat, for one thing. And that there is a man in the moon.
If this was a story, I would have fallen in love with her instead of you. I would have forsaken a mere cello for a real woman. But it is not a story. My love for you is as strong as ever. In the twilight in my garret, I play you myself. It is not easy playing with a single arm, but somehow I manage. I no longer dream about keeping her head imprisoned within your body; instead I keep my own head there. And when we sing together, the tears from my eyes merging into a single bright stream on my cheeks, I no longer even care to know your name.
What To Do When The Devil Comes Round To Tea
What to do when the Devil comes round for tea? First you must attempt to establish his intentions. The concept of tea is an indefinite one. Does he mean a cup of tea, or a full-blown meal? If the former, then what blend? If
the latter, then how many courses?
No-one can answer these questions; the Devil is ever a subtle guest. His tastes are varied and even obscure. There is a smörgåsbord of suppositions; a veritable goulash of guesses. To play safe is often to be lost. Conversely, to gamble with exotic spices and strange herbs can provoke the Devil to shuddering rage.
I live in a castle deep in the midst of a forest. Few travellers ever grace my home. The twirling branches of the oaks and elms are hands that squeeze the breath from the throats of all who venture beneath the dark canopy. I hold an empty court in my gloomy manse; there is a table decked out with cutlery and jugs waiting to be filled. There is a fire in the grate waiting to be lit. I am ready to entertain guests at a moment’s notice. But no guests are ever to be found seated at this table; no wanderers to tell tales or sing songs.
One morning, I find a note fixed to the door with a blood-red nail. It is from the Devil. He has invited himself round for tea. He will appear at sunset and expects to be thoroughly satisfied by the time the new sun has risen. What should I do? I am at once both fearful and relieved; fearful because I have heard what happened to those hosts who displeased the Prince of Darkness with stale bread and sour wine, relieved because I have at last a justification for my existence. I fret and pace the flagstones of my castle; at times I raise my head and utter a laugh of cautious joy. I rattle the pots and pans in my draughty kitchen.
There is, however, no time to be lost. I must saddle my horse and be off, through the forest, to the nearest village. Mandragora, my steed, snorts as I lead him out of the stables. With an empty sack tied to my pommel, flapping in my callow face, we fly over brooks and streams, between the trunks of towering trees. We reach the village by noon; the village whose markets are crowded with those who bring produce from the five corners of the land. The heady aromas of saffron, caraway and oregano mingle with those more homely odours by which we identify cheese, fruits and seaweed. But this is not the market I seek.
I fill my sack with that I have chosen, paid for with gold and tin coins, and race back the way I came. Mandragora resents the exercise; foam flecks his mouth and trails off behind him, like a hippogriff nosing through a cloud. By the time we reach the castle, the sun slants low in the west. I make for my kitchens and my hands become wonders to behold, dancing lovers with a purpose beyond desire. I chop, I stir, I taste; I reduce and simmer and strain and urge. Finally there is a knock at the door and I wipe my greasy hands on my apron, cast off my tall chef’s hat and compose myself to welcome my guest.
The Devil lingers on the threshold awhile, toying with the hem of his cloak. He is much shorter than I had been led to believe; a tiny man really, with a long beard and eyes of different colours. I invite him in formally, seat him at the head of the table and retire back to the kitchen. One by one I bring in the courses I have prepared, filling up his jug with mead and standing dutifully behind him, waiting to push aside the remains of each dish and replace it with another.
The whole meal can be outlined as follows: for Gustatio (Hors d’oeuvres) there is Honeyed Whine and Red Being Salad. For Fercula (Prepared dishes) there is Vampire Stake, well done; Lemon Soul in Tartarus Sauce; Pale Pulses and Veins; the whole washed down with Wandering Spirits that—tu facies bonum bibendo—by your drinking will make you good. And then for Mensae Secundae (Dessert) we have Blacker Olives, Seedless Gripes and Heretic-Roasted Chestnuts. I hover uncertainly while the Devil samples each delicacy, his throat swelling like a misplaced echo.
At the end, he wipes his lips with a satin napkin and knits his brows together and winks his ill-set eyes. He nods his head and stands up, pushing back his chair with an arrogant heel. His voice is at once musical and jarring and specious; like the avalanche on a deserted mountain, or the fall of a tree on an uninhabited island. He is pleased; he is extremely pleased. He picks crumbs out of his absurd beard and splinters from between his black teeth. The food, he insists, was diabolical. With a smile and a bow, I indicate the collection of empty plates that form a row beside him.
He lets loose a guffaw. Wrapping his cloak tightly about his hunched frame, he departs into the night. The heavy door slams behind him of its own accord, but I hear his footsteps in the cosmic silence. I return to the Banqueting Hall and hold up the plates to the fiery tongues of the hearth. They shine brightly in the orange light and, when I slant them at different angles, scatter this light up the walls and across the musty tapestries.
I have mentioned that I was always ready to entertain guests at a moment’s notice. And yet, the Devil’s note had me scurrying to the village for supplies. It was not food that I sought but the hardware market, where I purchased half-a-dozen mirrors. For only by eating off his own image could the Devil be satisfied, yet not wish to employ me as his permanent cook; only by feasting off his own preservation could I hope to be preserved in turn. For any judgement would have to be turned against himself. The mirrors were the aspic of his own tolerance.
Reflect seriously upon this advice, friend; for it is only in reflection that you can be assured of a favourable result when the Devil comes round for tea.
Arquebus for Harlequin
Harlequin shot me in the twilit garden. He used a primitive handgun, barrel stuffed with dead leaves and hailstones. My wounds glittered; I sat down in the arbour, under the darkling sky.
My wife found me next morning, still in the arbour. I said: ‘A harlequin shot me with an arquebus.’ She considered this carefully. ‘What sort of harlequin?’ she asked. ‘Yellow and black,’ I said. ‘And what pattern of arquebus?’ ‘French, I think.’ She nodded wisely. ‘Well I’m sure you had it coming. Perhaps he was your conscience.’
My wife is not a sympathetic woman.
But why should she be? I neither require nor desire her comforting words, her smooth hands. That night I dreamed about the harlequin, a middle-aged figure too plump for the role. He was playing a pantaleon in pantaloons; the slumbering brain is fond of allusions. He shot me again, in my sleep. I awoke to a lightning storm. ‘Pisht!’
My wife told me the storm was God’s way of taking a photograph. I liked that. ‘Are you saying I made the wrong choices in life? Are you implying that the world is no longer my bivalve shellfish?’ We fought with pillows for the truth; the truth would not out but the stuffing flew loose. I liked that less.
My wife’s name, by the way, is Cora. Once, when we were young, we ate multi-layered chocolate cake in arcade cafés. Cacao bliss; our knees knocked under the table. Cake was not all. Cappuccino to first sear, and then drape in milky shrouds, our tongues. We had a full relationship, based on calorific value. Cora was a divorcee; her husband had been a cheesecake photographer, strawberry and ginger mostly. We did not dance through the park. There are limits.
I said to my wife: ‘Did you hire a harlequin to assassinate me? Did you think to settle my hash with the aid of a precursive archetype in mask and motley?’ She rigorously denied these allegations. But in the waste-paper bin the following morning, I found two discarded notes. One said: ‘Will ’arlequin be requiring another harquebus, milady?’ The other: ‘No Parker, thank you kindly.’
My wife distrusts me because I have forsaken engineering for the pen. I was on the verge of improving the linear motor, twisting it into a Möbius strip and creating perpetual motion, when I suddenly abandoned it all and began writing short stories instead.
This was a terrible mistake, I know; the world requires no more fiction. Motion, the breath of engines, is more important than emotion, the mist of maturity. I have entered wordy swamps crowded with fools, I have raised a callus on my middle finger for nothing. The dynamos of reason are waiting for me. Why have I forsaken them?
My first story was about a talking chair. Whenever people sat on it, a voice would compliment them on the contours of their buttocks. Because of this, the chair was locked in an attic during dinner parties. One evening it escaped and wreaked havoc. The moral of the story was that it is foolish to criticise a chair for such behav
iour. Chairs know guests only by the lower part of their anatomy.
This story did not sell.
My wife wants to kill me because she believes it will teach me a lesson. I wish her luck. I see Parker smiling ambiguously at me over the breakfast table. He is her willing slave, he will obey her orders to the letter. I despise his bulging eyes and thinning hair, the fact that his coat has tails. He distrusts my ignorance of pâté and dressage. After my demise, Cora will take his creaking frame into her bed, press his dribbling lips to her ample bosom, guide his servile hands between her thighs. This is unfair. He is not even her gardener.
I know what I need to do to win her back. I need to pleasure her long into a humid night. I need to return to engineering. The first of these I cannot attempt; I plead my wounds. The second is even more tricky. It would be an admission of defeat.
This writing business has cost me many friends. I used to drink and laugh in honest surroundings. Now I attend literary lunches and frequent wine bars. I have slowly substituted naturally balding companions in check shirts for grimier fellows who wear felt and paisley and whose baldness owes more to the razor than the gene.
Exactly a week after the harlequin incident, my wife said to me: ‘He’ll be back, you know. He won’t give up that easily. It is essential you placate him by burning your manuscripts. Take them out to the bottom of the garden. Offer them up to him as a sort of sacrifice. Your life has become a sad joke; let the particoloured jester weld shut the ducts of your tears, leaving you dry as wit.’
