“Aha,” says Yul. “Perhaps the prize is some large ornamental shoe-tree. I confess I have need of one. It is somewhat irregular that a portion of the prize should be revealed before the final layer has been removed but I cannot deny this will serve to whet my appetite and fire my curiosity.”
I return the needle to “Pop Goes the Weasel” and the game resumes with an increased fervor.
As I have used many layers the parcel has the delightful silvery opacity clingfilm will assume after a really thorough wrapping. Nonetheless as the game progresses dark shadows begin to be apparent within the parcel. Then portions of Roy’s apparel can be made out, although not his trademark dark glasses, as I took care to obscure them beneath several layers.
“The prize is some clothes,” says Mitzi when there are only a few layers left. “It is a suit of dark clothing arranged on a mannequin.”
“Nonsense,” says Yul. “It is a baroque man-sized shoe-tree, I tell you.”
“I can see the face of God,” says Jim Morrison in his mystical way. Not to speak blasphemously, but in this case he is not far wrong.
“This is an enigma wrapped inside a mystery,” says Yul as they continue to pass Roy around the circle. “I am stimulated to the point of frenzy.”
At last, there is but one layer yet to be removed, wound loosely but artfully about Roy. I stop the music just as the Roy parcel lands on Yul Brynner’s lap.
“Joy unbounded,” he cries. “I shall be the one to rend the final veil. Commiserations, Mitzi. Writhe in my dust, Morrison.”
But just as he reaches out to remove the wrapping, Roy does not so much burst forth as sit up.
“Surprise,” he says.
The reaction is gratifying.
Yul Brynner gasps in astonishment and then breathes some obscure exclamation originating from the wild Slavic steppes of his youth.
Mitzi shrieks in startlement and then claps her hands and gives vent to peals of merry laughter.
“Whoa, headfuck,” says Jim Morrison.
Yul stares silently at Roy for some moments, his mouth hanging open. Finally he throws back his trademark bald head and laughs mightily.
“Congratulations, Roy,” he says at last. “It is an unparalleled jape the recollection of which will warm my innards so long as breath moves my body.”
“Thank you,” says Roy. “May I now get off your lap?”
“You may do so.” Roy does so and takes up his seat on the couch again. Yul claps his hands. “Flunkey! Take a message to the editors of the Düsseldorf Zeitung at once. I wish to take out an ad in the announcements column. The text is to run as follows: ‘I, Mr. Yul Brynner, the well-known bald actor, am not speaking boastfully, but I wish it to be known that on this night at my pied-à-terre in Düsseldorf there occurred the greatest party of all time. Present were Mr. Jim Morrison, Miss Mitzi Klavierstuhl, Jetta the terrapin, Ulrich Haarbürste, several flunkeys, and special guest of honor Mr. Roy Orbison, the undisputed Mr. Fun of the entertainment kingdom. If any man dares question this assertion I will not hesitate to fight him after the traditions of the wild Slavic steppes of my youth.’ ”
The flunkey scurries off and Roy bows his acknowledgment.
Jim Morrison is still plainly awestruck by the prank.
“He was a parcel,” he says, “and then he was a man. This must be some uncanny kind of magic.” He picks up a piece of clingfilm and examines it with rapture. “What is this groovy substance of glittery translucence?”
“It is called clingfilm,” I say.
“Clingfilm,” says Jim Morrison, “wild.” He examines the clingfilm wide-eyed with a fascination I know all too well. I cannot blame him and yet I almost think to warn him not to start on that path, to tell him what a demanding mistress Lady Clingfilm can be . . .
Suddenly he leaps to his feet. “Do it, man,” he cries. “Do it to me!”
“I beg your pardon?” I say.
“I want to take that trip too!” says Jim Morrison excitedly. “I want you to wrap me in clingfilm!”
My palms sweat. I wish to die. The thought of wrapping Jim Morrison in clingfilm is too horrible to contemplate . . .
Now here is a cliff-hanger to kill for! What can happen now? Will I be forced to wrap Jim Morrison in clingfilm or will something occur to forestall this foolish and hideous travesty? Do not expect mercy from this quarter, for I am resolved not to tell you until the next chapter. I confess the power has gone to my head and I am tempted to forbid you to read it for two weeks at least. But I will not do so.
Chapter 14
I resume without ado as it would be the rankest impoliteness to tarry with preamble after such a shocking cliff-hanger.
“Do not be so foolish,” Yul Brynner snaps at Jim Morrison. “You are like the emulous dog in the fine old Düsseldorf fable who wished to be an octopus and was covered in humiliation. One clingfilm wrapping is more than enough for any party.” Here I disagree with Yul but as he is the host it would be impolite to say so. “This is like the debacle that occurred when you attempted to outshine Johannes Doppelzimmer in the use of joy buzzers and merely shook a lot of hands to no great effect. You will instead give us a party piece of your own devising.”
Jim Morrison hangs his head in acknowledgment of the rebuke. “I will do so,” he agrees.
“Yes, come,” says Mitzi, “had you not promised to regale us with a shamanistic dance?”
“That is so,” says Jim Morrison, brightening. “It is guaranteed to make any party go with a swing. It will also send you on a spiritual journey and put you in touch with cosmic powers and previous lives.”
There are murmurs of polite interest from all but the nibbling Jetta.
“But hold,” says Jim Morrison. “In order to perform a shamanistic ritual properly I require a snake.”
“Ach,” says Yul, “regrettably I am without one. Perhaps my dachshund draft excluder might suffice?”
“At a pinch it would,” says Jim, “but on second thoughts I will simply wave around some streamers of this groovy clingfilm substance, if there are no objections to that.”
“We do not object,” says Yul. “Commence.”
Jim nods and commences to wave two ribbons of clingfilm about his head and undulate and gyrate and give vent to strange tribal ululations.
“Feel the vibe,” he says. “Embrace the groove. Pay diligent attention to the mystical essences.”
He starts to hum and chant as he sways. The shards of clingfilm glitter, captivating, mesmerizing, crystallized strands of ether, neither solid nor liquid but something in between . . .
“Reach out to your inner self,” says Jim Morrison hypnotically. “Pierce the veil that hides hidden things. Rap smartly upon the knocker of your door of perception . . .”
I feel my eyes grow heavy. Next to me I see Jetta stop eating and seem to nod her head in time to Jim’s rhythms . . .
“There is a footstep in the hall . . . the door is opening . . .”
Mitzi is rapt. Roy’s eyes are unreadable behind his dark glasses. Yul Brynner has his eyes closed and his arms folded with concentration.
“Pass beyond the threshold. Wipe your shoes upon the mat. Take off your overcoat and mittens if you are wearing any. You are walking down a long hallway . . .”
My eyes have closed. All there is is Jim’s murmuring voice and the gentle swish of the clingfilm streamers as he waves his arms.
“At the end of the hallway is another door. A shimmering white light flickers around the edges. Turn the handle and pass beyond . . .”
And it is so—I seem to see such a door. I knock politely and enter the light . . .
“The secrets of the past and the future are laid out before you. Embrace what visions may come.”
And to my bemusement, I do indeed have a most unusual vision, which I will describe for you now . . .
Chapter 15
It starts in Ancient Egypt. I am standing outside my pyramid sweeping sand off the doorstep when he walks through the gat
e, that well-known Pharaoh of the Upper and Lower Nile, Ra-Ibis-Son.
“Hello, Ra,” I say. “What are you doing visiting your tomb?”
“Ensuring all is prepared for my eventual demise,” he says.
“Ah,” I say. “Would you like to come in and view the death chamber?”
“Indeed,” says Ra.
Although he is the pharaoh of all Ancient Egypt and I the high priest of his sepulchre I decide to venture a little joke. “It is somewhat irregular as you have made no appointment and you are very far from dead!”
The Great Pharaoh of Upper and Lower Egypt does not laugh. His eyes are unreadable behind the black obsidian eye guards he wears to ward off the harsh desert sun.
He says, “Apart from a slight sniffle I am in the best of health but no man can plan for the random malice of our various beast-headed gods.”
“It is so,” I agree.
Ra-Ibis-Son follows me inside his sepulchre, bending as he enters the low doorway so as not to dislodge his trademark pharaonic headgear.
I lead him through several tunnels, conversationally pointing out the various traps and barriers that will protect him from tomb robbers and the ample storage facilities.
We also make urbane small talk about the level of the Nile and the prospects for the bulrush harvest and so forth.
In the death chamber my giant scarab beetle Khetta comes scuttling out to greet us. Neatly stacked piles of gold treasure gleam in the lamplight and there are sundry murals depicting the pharaoh enjoying scenes of sport and frolic in the afterlife. A large sarcophagus waits invitingly and implements for pulling Ra’s brain out through his nose and various other organ removals are kept ready in a gaily painted plant pot.
“This is a well-kept pyramid,” says Ra-Ibis-Son. “Even your scarab beetle is highly polished.”
I bow my acknowledgment. “As your high priest it is my duty to keep everything spick and span.”
“It will be a pleasure to be entombed here.”
“And let us not forget, completely covered in various preserving substances,” I say. “Although not for many years, let us hope,” I feel obliged to add.
“Yes,” says Ra, “I will be spending all eternity here but I am in no rush to begin.”
Just then there is an earthquake and huge blocks of stone come tumbling down around the entrance, sealing us inside the pyramid.
“Also,” I say, “it appears we are trapped.”
“Ach,” says Ra, “one of our pantheon of beast-headed gods has screwed me.”
“This is highly irregular,” I say. “You are entombed here forever and yet you are not dead!”
“There is no sense fighting the will of the beast-headed gods,” says Ra-Ibis-Son philosophically. “You must proceed with the preservation rituals as best you can.”
“Very well.” I bow and fetch my instruments. “First I am supposed to pull your brains out through your nose with a hook.”
“We will dispense with that part but you may trim my nasal hair if need be.”
“Very well.” Suddenly I gasp. “But hold! I regret to report there are no bandages with which to mummify you! Ordinarily I am careful to lay in a good supply but just lately a troop of Ancient Egyptian proto–Girl Guides came by and borrowed them all to practice their first aid with,” I lie plausibly.
“So?” says the Pharaoh Ra. “This is surely an annoyance. Without bandages how are you to apply the sundry preserving substances to me?”
“There is no way,” I say. “Now your various limbs will rot off and you will be unable to take part in the sports and frolics of the afterlife.”
“Ach,” says Ra, “vexation upon vexation.”
I tickle Khetta’s clicking mandibles thoughtfully and clear my throat. “There is one thing we might try,” I say.
“Name that thing.”
“As you know I am something of an alchemist in my spare time,” I say. “Not to speak boastfully but I have lately discovered a substance that may be accounted the eighth wonder of the ancient world. Imagine if you will a sheet of silver beaten to an incredible thinness, more a thing of gossamer than a foil. You will scarcely credit it, but this miracle of ancient alchemy is both a bandage AND a preserving substance all in one. Moreover it is transparent, so not only will it preserve you forever but generations unborn would be able to gaze upon your features.”
“Unglaublich,” says Ra-Ibis-Son. “In such a shroud I would be the envy of the underworld. Does this gift of the beast-headed gods have a name?”
“In simple hieroglyphics, it may be rendered ‘The filmy all-in-one bandage AND preserving substance that clings to what it touches with an almost criminal sensuality.’ I call it film-cling for short.”
“Also,” says Ra-Ibis-Son. “Then the way is plain. You will embalm me in ‘film-cling’ immediately.”
“At once, mein Pharaoh.”
I fetch the scrolls of film-cling from their sacred caskets and set to work. I wrap him snugly with a millimetrical precision and a workmanship designed to last for the ages. Soon, Ra-Ibis-Son, Pharaoh of all the Egyptians, is completely embalmed in film-cling. In simple hieroglyphics my joy could only be rendered by a picture of a smiling man levitating and embracing the many-armed disc of the sun.
“You are completely embalmed in film-cling,” I report with breathless awe.
“Capital,” says Ra, somewhat muffled. “Now to lie here undisturbed for quite some time.”
“To keep you company I will remain here and watch over you for the next few thousand years,” I say.
“That is kind of you.”
Gingerly I lower Ra-Ibis-Son into his sarcophagus although I do not close the lid. With the faithful Khetta by my side I prepare to stand vigil over his magnificently glittering form for many, many years.
“My spirit will not soon forget your helpfulness,” says the pharaoh. “I will remember this day through many lifetimes.”
“So will I,” I say, and my voice seems to echo strangely and the lamplight flickers . . .
And so the strange vision concludes.
But staring at the Pharaoh Ra-Ibis-Son, a sudden thought comes to me: Doesn’t he bear a resemblance to someone . . . someone I know . . . ?
But . . . who?
I am not to find out, for the mists of the netherworld close around me . . .
Chapter 16
I awake from the reverie to find myself back in Yul Brynner’s living room.
None of it happened after all. Or . . . did it?
The others are also awakened from their trance.
“That was most remarkable,” Yul Brynner says to Jim Morrison. “I scoffed beforehand but now I confess you are gifted with some uncanny kind of magic. I saw a vision of the wild Slavic steppes of my youth and saw my old babushka for the first time in many years. I should give her a call.”
“As for me, I was granted a glimpse of the future,” says Mitzi. “Next Tuesday an unsuspected storm front will creep up on Düsseldorf from the east. The timely deployment of this information will enable me to steal a march on my rival Hroswitha Bienenstock, the weathergirl of Raus Schnell Düsseldorf.”
“As for me,” says Roy thoughtfully, “I saw . . .”
“Yes, Roy?”
“Sand,” says Roy puzzledly. “Lots and lots of sand . . .”
“Also . . . ,” I say.
I keep quiet as to my own revelation. Jetta for her part looks abstracted for a moment and then returns to the Pomeranian worms.
The party continues on its merry way. We play musical statues and musical bumps and then the fine old Düsseldorf party game of grease-the-piggy-sideways, which involves a jelly bean being passed around a circle of people by means of spoons gripped between the teeth, while a malign force, the piggy, kneels in the middle and attempts to interrupt the process by batting people on the kneecap with a balloon, also clenched between the teeth. If someone should drop the jelly bean they are forced to perform a forfeit and demoted to the rank of piggy and s
hamed for their lack of zeal.
As time goes on, however, I start to feel uneasy. Roy and Yul and Jim are playing an impromptu game consisting of seeing who can hold the most jelly beans on their tongue without dropping or swallowing them. Despite the discreet ministrations of the flunkeys there is much litter and disarray. Jetta is face down in a bowl of prime Pomeranian worms while Mitzi Klavierstuhl tickles her paws. This is turning into some scene from the Satyricon.
This heady entertainment-world lifestyle is all well and good for those who were born to it and I do not wish to be a party pooper. But as the evening wears on I start to become concerned lest Jetta should acquire a taste for such a lifestyle and start to find the humble comforts of our home stale and profitless. She may even wish to leave me and strike out on her own and become the pampered plaything of some well-heeled gadabout of the beau monde. And then what would become of me?
Just then my worst fears appear to be realized.
“Jetta is such a darling,” says Mitzi Klavierstuhl. “I have decided to steal her away from you.”
“You may not do so!” I shriek. “Give her back to me at once!”
What will happen now? But here I lower the curtain. With such a cliff-hanger in place a more mercenary author would be tempted to end the book at this point and force you to buy a sequel to learn the resolution. I, however, will merely force you to await the next chapter.
Chapter 17
Only those with a debilitating disease of the brain can fail to remember the denouement of the last chapter. At the risk of discriminating against them I will launch straight into the action without recap.
You will remember, then, that Mitzi Klavierstuhl, dangerously charismatic weathergirl of Guten Abend Düsseldorf, had threatened to take Jetta from me and that I had forbidden her to do so.
Adrenaline surges through me. I turn ashen and quiver. Never in my life have I come so close to some impolite and regrettable action. When the foundation of one’s very home is threatened a primal instinct seizes one to upbraid and remonstrate with the ferocity of some untamed beast of the hinterlands.
“You will not take Jetta from me!” I declare. “I would venture almost anything to prevent you. Do not think that your gender and celebrity status can protect you from complicated legal proceedings. Though you fled to the very ends of the earth my subpoena would pursue you.”
Ulrich Haarbürste's Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm Page 7
