Ulrich Haarbürste's Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm

by Ulrich Haarbürste

  Unfortunately the men playing Cleopatra’s servants tug the clingfilm carpet to unroll too vigorously and Roy rolls out so far and fast he knocks Caesar over and then rolls off the stage.

  “Cut,” screams the director. “Take it again from the top.”

  “You mean,” I say, my spine tingling, “we have to do it all over again?”

  “What are you, goddam slow? We’ll do it over and over until it’s perfect! Why, I have often done so many as a hundred takes for a single scene.”

  And so it goes. All in all I am forced to wrap and unroll Roy so many as seventy-eight times.

  All too soon, however, the shot is in the can.

  “This is a crap scene anyway,” says the director rudely. “I think I will cut it and put in something with motorbikes. You are all fired, especially Cleopatra.”

  “I do not like the film industry,” says Roy, rubbing his various bruises. “In future I will stick to music.”

  “In truth,” I say, “I cannot see you in a film.”

  Except, I think to myself, one certain special kind of film. . .

  (I mean clingfilm.)

  The Roy Orbison in Clingfilm Novel

  Chapter 1

  It starts at the concert that Roy Orbison is playing in Düsseldorf. I am in a privileged position in the front row with my terrapin Jetta after having been gifted with free tickets for sundry reasons explained in my previous tales.

  Roy has executed various songs of his repertoire with commendable diligence.

  “Thank you and good night, Düsseldorf,” he says as he prepares to take his leave. “You have been a well-behaved audience.” He gives me a special nod and I nudge Jetta and bow to acknowledge the compliment.

  “Please give us more,” implores a voice.

  “He may have a tram to catch,” I remonstrate.

  “I had not thought of that,” admits the voice.

  “Time is not pressing,” says Roy. “It is somewhat irregular but even though I have finished my usual set I will perform another song or two at no extra cost.”

  “Capital,” says the crowd. There are mutters of approval at his work ethic and zeal.

  Roy adjusts his dark glasses and prepares to regale us with his trademark vaulting tenor.

  But then disaster strikes!

  “Ach,” says Roy, glancing upwards. “It has started to rain. It looks as though I will not be able to perform any more after all.”

  “This is a disappointment,” says a voice from the crowd. “He has trifled with us and cruelly dashed our expectations.”

  “You are a fraud, Mr. Orbison,” calls another. “You have lost touch with your fan base.” There are murmurs of discontent.

  “What can he do?” I remonstrate. “No man can contend with the random malice of the elements. With all the electric rock instruments bedecking the stage he runs the risk of electrocution or similar mishap should he attempt to perform in the rain.”

  But the many-headed monster that is the crowd is not to be appeased. To my horror a slice of orange peel is tossed onto the stage, fortunately missing Roy but grazing his amplifier. There are various cries.

  “Seize him.”

  “Storm the stage.”

  “Rend his trademark dark clothing.”

  “Dangle him upside down until we are given a refund.”

  “Show this American rock dandy how we arrange things in Düsseldorf.”

  I nestle Jetta closer to my bosom, for an emotional tinderbox such as this is no place for a terrapin.

  Meanwhile Roy looks from the growling crowd to the trickling rain to the electrical sonic equipment which is even now starting to spark and crackle ominously.

  “It looks as though I am trapped between a rock and a hard place,” he comments wryly. “It seems as if I have no choice but to perform no matter the peril.”

  But if Roy touches his instruments he will surely be electrocuted! But if he does not do so—who knows what extremity the crowd will resort to in their displeasure?

  How is this to be resolved? You may find out in chapter two. Little do you suspect what is about to befall. . .

  Chapter 2

  Hello, and welcome to chapter two. If you recall at the end of the last chapter Roy was in an awkward predicament between an unruly crowd on one hand and the almost certain risk of electrocution or humiliating wetness on the other.

  How, I asked, was this to be resolved. . .?

  Read on and all will be revealed.

  Who could have foretold that I, Ulrich Haarbürste (accompanied by my terrapin Jetta), would find myself clambering onto the stage occupied by Mr. Roy Orbison, that well-known man in black? Nevertheless such is the case.

  “Forgive me for intruding, Roy,” I say with a diffident cough. “But it occurs to me that I may be able to offer a way out of your predicament.”

  “I cannot possibly imagine how,” says Roy.

  “If you permit, it seems to me that what is required here is some sort of covering to protect you from the ravages of the rain.”

  “It is so,” says Roy. “But where such a covering is to be procured is beyond my wit to ascertain.”

  “If I might suggest—by some fluke of Dame Fortune it falls out that I am carrying a roll of clingfilm in my jacket. Perhaps that might suffice?”

  “It will have to,” says Roy. “You will cover me in clingfilm at once. Hurry for we can have only minutes before the disenchanted crowd rushes the stage and perpetrates some unpleasant harm upon me.”

  “Very well,” I say.

  I start from the ankles and work my way up. I work quickly and efficiently as though I had been rehearsing this moment all my life and had procured black-suited mannequins on which to practice. Soon, Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in clingfilm. I almost purr with the unbridled delight.

  “You are completely wrapped in clingfilm,” I report.

  “Capital,” says Roy. “Now you will see some rock and roll.”

  Roy hops close to his microphone and resumes his rock minstrelsy, somewhat muffled by his clingfilm coating. By the end of the second song the crowd are won over and hang their heads in shame at their earlier impoliteness. The disaster has been averted!

  “I owe you my life,” says Roy as he hops offstage. “At the very least I believe they would have scuffed my shoes. Give this man and his terrapin backstage passes,” he instructs a roadie.

  I bow my thanks and attach Jetta’s pass to her paw as Roy is released from his filmy cocoon by the roadie.

  “Boss,” says the roadie, “I have to report that a reporter from Rolling Stone magazine is outside hoping to interview you.”

  “Ach,” says Roy. “Am I to have no rest after my concert? I cannot openly offend these arbiters of rock star status and yet I wish there was some disguise I could adopt in order to leave without him accosting me.”

  “Hmm,” I say. “It is certainly a predicament.” I decide to risk a puckish observation. “You know, it strikes me there is a certain irony here. Any other man in such a situation would perhaps resort to wearing dark glasses in order to disguise himself. And yet in your case it is impossible, for wearing your trademark dark glasses it is impossible to mistake you for anyone else!”

  Roy thinks about this impassively for several seconds and then begins to laugh. “It is so,” he says ruefully. “It is impossible to mistake me for anyone else . . . ”

  Little do we suspect that a terrible irony lurks in that very remark . . .

  Why is it so? And how is Roy to evade the importunities of the rock press?

  Aha! You may not know at this point. But if you proceed to the next chapter you are likely to find out.

  Chapter 3

  Now the story continues.

  You may remember that at the end of the last installment Roy was perplexed as to how to avoid the untimely attentions of the rock press without being impolite. The possibility of some sort of disguise had been mooted.

  If you do not remember this you should certa
inly reread the preceding chapter to refresh your mind.

  And so at this exciting juncture we resume.

  Gratifyingly Roy is still laughing at my little joke. “My dark glasses are of no use,” he says again. “It is so, it is so.”

  I cough diffidently and open my mouth to give forth: “Of course, there is one thing we might. . .”

  But I am rudely interrupted by the loitering roadie, attempting to join in with the mirth.

  “Perhaps if Mr. Orbison were to remove his trademark dark glasses that would make a good disguise!”

  My palms sweat. It is all going wrong. Once again my attempts at urbane comedy have backfired on me. The thought of Roy without his trademark dark glasses is too awful to contemplate.

  In my alarm and confusion I am regrettably short with the man and snap, “Such a thing is unheard of and I do not recall anyone canvassing your opinion. Go and fetch some complimentary backstage worms for my terrapin at once.”

  The luckless underling bows his assent and makes off.

  “To everything its season,” says Roy. “Enough mirth and tomfoolery for now. Let us put our minds to the problem of how I am to slip by the stage-door jackals of the press without causing offense.”

  “You know,” I say, “it strikes me as somewhat unfortunate that you were released from your clingfilm wrapping so speedily. While clingfilm is remarkable for its miraculous transparency, in the event of a really, really thick wrapping with many, many layers, there is a cumulative effect of opacity so that in the end whatever is wrapped becomes an impressionistic blur embedded at the heart of a silvery cocoon in the most delightful way.”

  “Also?” says Roy. “There is more to clingfilm than one would at first suspect. In my rock star lifestyle I have not had time to go into this matter.”

  “I on the other hand have devoted some time to experiments in this line, purely in an amateur way,” I admit modestly.

  “What I fail to see is how this connects to our current predicament,” says Roy.

  “Listen and you shall hear of my plan,” I say.

  “Proceed to expound it,” says Roy.

  “I will do so,” I say.

  But just as I open my mouth to vent my suggestion the presumptuous roadie reappears in a state of great excitement.

  “Mr. Orbison,” he says, “I have to report that I have found a false beard left behind by a previous performer. Surely this will solve your disguise problems!”

  What will happen now? Will the roadie’s ridiculous beard scheme take precedence over my own more interesting and plausible plan? And what on earth can my own plan possibly be anyway?

  You must wait patiently until the next chapter for enlightenment. . .

  Chapter 4

  Here we are at chapter four. I am becoming increasingly impatient at the need to recap what has gone before for the benefit of those who may have forgotten in the interim.

  Certainly I hope no one is so foolish as to read the chapters one after the other without pause, for thereby you will deprive yourself of the joys of anticipation and wondering what can happen next.

  However, if you leave it too long between installments you may forget the previous developments. I estimate that a week is a good length of time for you to mull over the ramifications of each chapter and tease yourself with speculations as to how the situation can possibly be resolved. If you intend to leave it longer than that, it may be wise to take notes about the contents of the foregoing chapter to refer to when you resume, for in future I do not intend to provide this service as it is slowing down the action.

  Also. If you recall Roy and myself were debating how best to provide camouflage to enable him to avoid the loitering hounds of fame and thus be spared the need to provide his opinion on topical matters of the day.

  A garrulous roadie had uninvitedly gate-crashed our deliberations in order to propound a foolish scheme involving Roy donning a false beard.

  I, on the other hand, had hinted at the existence of a mysterious plan, the nature of which I had not yet divulged. . .

  Whose scheme will prevail? Read on and your curiosity will not go unsatisfied.

  I stare in annoyance at the false beard with which the optimistic flunkey believes Roy may conceal himself.

  “Hmm,” I say, thinking quickly. “Good work, my fellow.” And I seize the beard and put it on myself. “This will indeed be adequate to disguise me. Now, where is the disguise for Mr. Orbison?”

  “But—”

  “What? You do not have one? A pretty kettle of fish! You had best scurry off and procure one, had you not?”

  The man stammers incoherently and then clicks his heels and leaves.

  “You cannot get the staff,” says Roy.

  “The poor man is in out of his depth,” I say, stroking my false beard happily. “Now. In the event he should be unsuccessful, perhaps I should propound my own scheme at fuller length.”

  “You should do so,” says Roy. “I confess my curiosity is whetted.”

  “Like all great ideas it is simplicity itself. It occurs to me—”

  But at that instant I am again interrupted by the overeager roadman!

  “Mr. Orbison!” he cries. “Our problems may be over! I have found an Elektra mask left over from a production of Sophocles at this venue!”

  “An Elektra mask,” I say, again thinking quickly. “Well done, my fellow. That will certainly suffice to disguise my terrapin Jetta.” And I take the mask from him and put it on Jetta, whom it indeed renders unrecognizable, as she has never acted in Greek tragedy. “Now, where is Mr. Orbison’s disguise, or did you overlook that again?”

  “But—”

  “May I suggest you depart and do not return until you have fulfilled your mission?”

  The unfortunate man retires in confusion.

  “He has outlived his efficiency and should be pensioned off,” says Roy. “Also. About this plan of yours.”

  “I intend to wrap you in a great deal of clingfilm and wheel you past the reporter on a trolley,” I say very quickly.

  “A capital idea,” says Roy. “Commence.”

  “Very well,” I say.

  I take the roll of clingfilm, which has already seen service once this evening, from my jacket.

  I start at the feet and work my way up—

  And stop at the shin!

  For there is no more clingfilm on the roll! With a sickly rasp the last of it flies off the tube and adheres to the bottom of Roy’s trademark dark trousers poignantly, fluttering limply like the flag of a defeated army, a banner of doomed dreams.

  “Uh-oh,” I say to Jetta, “it is all going wrong.”

  Jetta looks back at me mutely, her face a mask of woe . . .

  TO BE CONTINUED (in chapter five).

  Chapter 5

  This is chapter five. Without wishing to speak boastfully I believe that chapter four was very good, in particular the dramatic ending.

  However, it will soon become apparent that I have played a narrative trick on you. In my defense, however, this was purely for your heightened enjoyment as you will soon perceive. If when all the facts are laid before you, you have any complaints about this matter we can take it up another time, provided you remain calm and pleasant in any communication with me.

  So then. If we cast our minds back to the previous happenings we see that chapter four concludes in a cliff-hanging situation. It looks very much as though I will not be able to wrap Roy in clingfilm for there is no more clingfilm left on the roll! It ends poignantly with me looking in alarm at Jetta, her face a tragic mask.

  Chapter five resumes the action immediately following these events.

  “Roy,” I say, “I regret to announce there is no more clingfilm left on this roll.”

  “This puts a crimp in our plans,” says Roy.

  “Yes it would,” I say, “were it not for the happy circumstance that, as chance would have it, I happen to have at least one other roll of clingfilm about my person, and possibly more t
han that. Not a suspicious number, but perhaps a somewhat surprising number when compared to the statistical average.”

  “Also?” says Roy. “This is fortuitous. Therefore there should only be a slight delay in the wrapping as you change to a new roll. Resume when it is convenient.”

  “I will do so.”

  I put the empty tube back in my pocket, for something so redolent of fond memories should not be discarded carelessly, if indeed ever. Then I extract a new roll of clingfilm from the inner regions of my clothing, pausing a moment to admire it in all its strong yet supple and transparent loveliness. As ever, I take a second to marvel that it is still entirely legal. Sometimes I wake in the night with a sudden fear that someone may come to confiscate my clingfilm and I run to count it and clutch it and think of new hiding places. But then I remember that they may not do so and I go back to my pillow with a happy smile on my face.

  But with Roy about to be wrapped in clingfilm this is certainly no time for a digression!

  I start at the ankles and work my way up. As the object is to efface Roy’s various trademark features and render him unrecognizable in a silvery chrysalis under many, many layers of clingfilm, I work industriously and with a tireless zeal. I circle around him repeatedly like some clingfilm-trailing celestial body orbiting some impassive black planet. Before too long, Roy Orbison is completely wrapped in clingfilm to a depth of many, many layers. The joy cannot be measured on any scale of values yet invented.

  “You are completely wrapped in clingfilm to a depth of many, many layers,” I say.

  “Capital,” says Roy, very muffled.

  I step back to admire my handiwork. Roy resembles some Stone Age rock god perfectly preserved within a clingfilm glacier. His outlines are satisfactorily blurred by the cumulative refractions of the deceptively transparent miracle of polymerization.

  I decide to test the disguise on the much put-upon roadie, who just then comes running back crying, “Mr. Orbison! I have to report I have found a pantomime horse costume! Perhaps that . . . ”

  I hold my breath and wait.

  “ . . . But where is Mr. Orbison?” the unwitting flunkey asks open-mouthed. “All I perceive is some kind of glinting plastic monolith with a dark six-foot shadow at its center in the place where he used to stand!”