“But Ulchen,” says Mitzi with a laugh, “I was only joking.”
My palms sweat. I have made a horrendous mistake. I wish to join the French Foreign Legion and attempt to redeem myself beneath the savage suns of Africa. I blush and mumble an apology and compliment her half-heartedly on the subtle nuances of the jest.
Fortunately just then a distraction arrives.
There is a knock at the front door and a flunkey is dispatched to find out who it is.
“Sir,” he says to Yul upon return, “I have to report that a reporter from Rolling Stone magazine seeks admission. He has got wind of your entertainment and begs to remind you that you promised him a peek into your celebrity lifestyle in return for publicity for your new Magnificent Seven film.”
“He may enter,” says Yul with a magnanimous wave of the hand. “I do not despise the hardworking gentlemen of the press and will accommodate them where I can.”
“Ach,” says Roy to me, “this constitutes an awkwardness. Undoubtedly this is the same fellow we eluded after the show. If he sees me here he will realize I am not still backstage and that his lonely vigil was thwarted by a stratagem. His wounded pride is likely to translate itself into lukewarm reviews of future concerts. We must leave before he enters.”
He rises and bows to Yul. “Thank you for a splendid evening but regrettably I find I must leave now,” he says.
“You need not fear this man’s arrival,” says Yul in surprise. “Rolling Stone selects their reporters with an almost Darwinian ruthlessness for conviviality and social ease as well as incisive knowledge of entertainment gossip. He will be no impediment to our gaiety.”
“Nevertheless for reasons I prefer not to disclose I must ask you to excuse me.”
“Very well,” says Yul with another magnanimous wave of the hand, “there can be no objection to your leaving prematurely after you have provided us with such fine amusement. Frankly the party has reached its twilight stages in any case and will not continue much longer lest we become flat and jaded. The only cause for regret is that so little of the food has been consumed. Those of us who are left are not likely to finish it and it will be stale in the morning.”
Roy turns to me. “Perhaps clingfilm can help in this situation?”
“No,” I say.
I do not by any means object to clingfilm being used to wrap food with, but on the other hand I have a sadly finite supply of it about my person and you cannot tell what more interesting uses for it may befall.
We bow and bid our farewells to the others. Mitzi teases me that she will not let me take Jetta but this time I realize it is a joke and retrieve her from her with grace and good humor.
“Ach,” says Roy suddenly. “But how are we to leave without offending the Rolling Stone reporter? He is undoubtedly in the hall by this time and ambulating briskly toward us. There is no way to reach the front door without being sighted by him.”
Diffidently I say, “There is one thing we might try. . .”
And what can that one thing be? Do not seek to ask, for the end of the chapter is upon us!
Chapter 18
It should be confessed immediately that I played a trick on you at the close of the last chapter. Moreover this was not such a nice trick as the one I perpetrated in an earlier installment, for this time the revelation of the truth will lead not to relief but to disappointment and cheated expectations.
I would ask you to consider, however, that as a novelist it is my duty to stay one jump ahead of you and allow you to take nothing for granted even if at times this means I seem to toy with you as a terrapin toys with a half-dead worm. You should reflect that in the long run this can only lead to your heightened enjoyment by means of increased suspense and tension.
In some sense I too am helpless in this matter, for it is the case that I cannot all the time write the things I would wish to write but must take account of the demands of plot and plausibility. Furthermore life itself is not all happiness and often the best-laid plans are thwarted by mischance and random contingency, and any novelist who did not reflect this truth would be a bungler indeed.
After such a long preamble it would not be surprising if you had now forgotten the contents of the previous chapter, so I will recap.
It was required that Roy and I (to say nothing of my terrapin Jetta) should leave Yul’s party without alerting the impending rock journalist to our presence. As he was already between us and the front door this presented certain difficulties.
“There is one thing we might try,” I had said.
Alas this thing was doomed not to be tried, for just then Yul says, “If you are hell-bent on escaping notice by this man the only course is to leave by the back door.”
“It is irregular but unavoidable in this instance,” says Roy. “Auf wiedersehen.”
“I warn you,” says Yul, “it does not give out on a lighted street but on a dark back alley. I flatter myself I am not without influence in this neighborhood, but I cannot answer for any perils you may face leaving that way.”
“We must brave them as we can,” says Roy.
And we make to the back door and leave.
By this point we are thinking about bedtime but little do we suspect that our odyssey on this night is only beginning.
Roy and I and Jetta progress down the darkened alley behind Yul’s back door and then turn into another.
By the time we commence to navigate a third such alley it comes to us that we do not know where we are heading.
“Roy,” I say, “I have to confess that I have lost my bearings.”
“Ach,” says Roy, “for my part I admit that I was following you, even though I was walking slightly in front as befits one of my rock star status.”
“Logically if we continue to the end of this alley we are sure to arrive somewhere else,” I say. “Perhaps it will be somewhere we recognize.”
“Let us hope,” says Roy. “I for one am not prepared to countenance an ignominious return to Yul’s to admit our perplexity.”
But after negotiating several more such alleys it comes to us that we are thoroughly lost.
“Ach,” says Roy, “the night wears on and we are no nearer to home and hearth. What illogical and inefficient scoundrel designed such an ill-lit and unsignposted labyrinth?”
We come to a sort of crossroads of back alleys and are confronted with three different paths to take. But which one would be wisest?
Experimentally I lay Jetta on the ground and wait for her lead, as I have noticed before that she has something of a homing instinct if you wait long enough. But she appears as disoriented as we.
“I do not wish to speak ungallantly but Jetta is of no use,” says Roy. “Even if she knew the way it would take all night to follow her. We must rely on our wits to resolve this conundrum.”
“I believe we should head in that direction,” I say, pointing to a certain alley.
“And I for my part believe we have already traversed that one. I have not spoken of this yet for fear to alarm you but I believe we are going round in circles and will continue to do so until exhaustion lays us waste or our shoes are rendered unfit for further service.”
“This is why one should always keep to the main thoroughfares and designated pedestrian areas,” I say. “We have no one to blame but ourselves for our rash madcap venture. The situation appears hopeless. And yet. . .I believe I have the glimmerings of an idea . . .”
Of what do I speak? Will this idea save us or will we pay the price for our foolhardy wandering into the unknown, as did Scott of the Antarctic before us?
Posing the questions I lower the veil; the answers await the next chapter.
Chapter 19
From now on I intend to launch straight into each new chapter without reprising what has gone before.
You will remember that Roy and I were lost in a maze of back alleys in a condition of perplexity as to what direction to take.
“My idea is this, Roy,” I say. “You will remember that
Theseus was able to navigate the labyrinth by means of a trail of thread.”
“I am familiar with that snippet of classical mythology but fail to see its current application, not least as we have no thread.”
“It is my proposal, Roy, that we leave behind us a trail not of thread but of clingfilm, thus leaving a record of the way we have traveled and enabling us to retrace our steps should we come to a dead end. Clingfilm is ideal for this purpose as, although there is little man-made illumination, I have noted before it has the quality of glinting softly in the moonlight, of which we have a sufficient, indeed an almost romantic, amount.”
“The plan is sound,” says Roy. “Commence to implement it.”
“I will do so.”
I take a fresh roll of clingfilm and look about me. Conveniently a fence with narrow wooden palings forms one corner of the junction. I place the roll of clingfilm around one of the poles of the fence so it will thereby act as a spool and unravel as we pull it. I make a test by holding the end of the clingfilm and walking off a few paces and it gives satisfactory results, the mother roll turning on the pole and dispensing clingfilm with a delightful rasp.
I say, “Logically you should be the one to hold the end of the clingfilm as you are walking half a pace in front as befits your rock star status. Moreover I am burdened with Jetta, in as far as a terrapin can ever be a burden rather than a solace.”
“It is so,” says Roy. “I do not object.”
“However,” I say, “it is the case that should anyone come across us you may look foolish pulling a delightful silvery streamer behind you, in as far as anyone can ever be made to look foolish by clingfilm. Reflect also that a rock journalist is dogging our steps, and should he track us this far his relentless newshound’s curiosity would doubtless inspire him to ask precisely why you were pulling a streamer of clingfilm behind you, and you should be forced to confess you were lost in the back alleys. Such an admission would sow dismay in the ranks of your followers were it to be reported.”
“Indeed,” says Roy. “If I could not be trusted to lead them through a back street, how can they trust me to lead them along the path of moderate excess to the palace of rock and roll wisdom?”
“There is perhaps one solution,” I say. “If I were to tie the end of the clingfilm around your midriff, you would thereby be able to pull it after us without holding it in your hand. Should anyone come across us you would be able to pass it off as some delightful baroque cummerbund.”
“Yes,” says Roy, “that would be far less foolish.”
I take the end of the clingfilm and tie it around Roy’s waist. I wrap it around several times and tie it tightly. My hand quivers as I force myself to stop there and not do a full wrap but there would be no justification for it in this instance.
“Your waist alone is wrapped with clingfilm,” I report in a small disconsolate voice.
“Admirable,” says Roy. “Then let us be off.”
We make off down an alley, the clingfilm satisfactorily unraveling on its makeshift spool as it is pulled in Roy’s wake. As the clingfilm glimmers in the moonlight he is like some bipedal black-clad snail trailing behind him a delightful silvery track.
After several hundred yards and various twists and turns, however, we are confronted with a brick wall and no further means of progress.
“Vexation,” says Roy, “this has proved a blind alley. Thank heaven for the trail of clingfilm. Let us retrace our steps.”
“But a thought occurs,” I say. “How are we to gather up the clingfilm as we make our return journey? For reasons of neatness alone we cannot just leave it strewn about the ground.”
“Nor had I intended to,” says Roy. “Naturally I had envisaged gathering it up from the paving as we went.”
“But we have traveled quite some way and the amount of clingfilm involved is considerable. By the time we returned to our point of origin it would form a large and unwieldy mass inconvenient for you to carry. Furthermore due to its nigh-miraculous clinging properties this would be difficult to disentangle, preventing our using it again when we try another alley.”
“I could perhaps wind it about my forearm as I go,” suggests Roy.
“You know,” I say thoughtfully, “I believe you are on the scent of something there. But a single limb may not be long enough. And if someone should stumble on us, a fine sight you would look with a large mass of clingfilm wound around your arm! Who knows what depravity people would imagine? Why, it would look as though we had been playing at doctors in the privacy of the back alley.”
“You have the gift of seeing clearly,” says Roy. “Advise me how to cope with this contingency.”
“What I propose is simplicity itself,” I say. “If you were to rotate your way up the alley and thereby wind the clingfilm around your whole body, you would in effect be transformed into a magnificent human spindle or bobbin of clingfilm and should, by the time we reach our destination, have gathered it all about you in a way that would be easy to unreel. Of course, as a side effect, you would by that point be completely wrapped in clingfilm.”
“How obvious the answer once you have explicated it,” says Roy. “The way is plain. I will rotate up the alley in such a way as to wrap the clingfilm around me immediately.”
Roy starts to make his way up the moonlit alley with a rotating motion. He is like some gyrating houri spinning tempestuously into a diaphanous veil. Such a spectacle the streets of Düsseldorf have never seen. I deftly guide the line of clingfilm as he reels it in about him so that it is distributed evenly about his body. I play it about his torso and his legs and his trademark dark glasses. Soon, Roy Orbison is a human roll of clingfilm. I sigh with fulfillment and reflect that the universe has reached its culmination and the stars may now be packed away.
“You are completely spooled with clingfilm,” I announce.
Roy makes muffled noises.
“Now to try the next alleyway,” I say, pointing. “If you rotate in the opposite direction you will in effect unspool and leave another trail of clingfilm behind us.”
Roy makes noises that sound like “I will do so.”
He rotates his way down another alley, shedding clingfilm as he goes. The sight is almost unbearably poignant and yet nonetheless diverting. He is like some anthropoid spinning top that has had the good fortune to be caressed and flung to gyration by some magnificent whip of clingfilm.
All too soon the clingfilm is all unwound from him. However, by this point we find we have reached the end of another alley and again it is a dead end.
“Ach,” says Roy. “Thwarted once more.”
“Yes,” I say. “It seems there is nothing for it but for you to repeat your spinning-into-the-clingfilm operation and again retrace the way back to the beginning.”
“I will do so,” says Roy.
Again Roy commences to rotate back up the alley and transform himself into a magnificent human bobbin of clingfilm. As I guide the clingfilm up and down him we are like the Nureyev and Fonteyn of some splendid clingfilm-based ballet. Soon, Roy Orbison is again completely bobbined with clingfilm. I bow my thanks punctiliously to the everlasting gods and remember to note this day in my diary with two red asterisks.
“You are completely bobbined with clingfilm,” I announce, “and we have again returned to our starting point.”
Roy makes a noise that sounds like “Also.”
“Logically the next alley must grant us exit from this urban warren, for of the four paths to choose we have already tried three if you include the way we came,” I say. “If you will unspool again in this direction I am sure our ordeal must be over.”
Roy makes noises of assent.
Again he rotates down an alley, divesting himself of clingfilm as he spins. It is like the unfurling of some clingfilm-based party blower of the gods.
Before too long he is again reduced to the sad remnant of past glories tied around his waist.
We have not reached the end of the alley, however, an
d Roy continues to plod along it for some way, pulling the thread of clingfilm behind him.
But soon a surprising discovery awaits us.
“Oh no,” I say, “I have a regrettable report to make, Roy.”
“Do not hesitate to make that report,” says Roy. “Bad news is best conveyed immediately. Delay can only worsen the sting.”
“Then I must report that due to some improbable mischance we are heading back the way we came. I recognize a dustbin we passed not long after leaving Yul’s.”
“Also,” says Roy, “this is an unexpected disappointment. A man of lesser character might issue a profanity in this situation.”
“I cannot think how this happened,” I say. “In my excitement at the prospect of escape from this situation I must have mistaken the direction.”
“The apportioning of blame is futile,” says Roy. “Let us console ourselves that once we return to the crossroads only one possible path remains to us.”
“Then if you will once again commence your spinning into the clingfilm routine?”
“I will do so.”
Once more Roy rotates back the way we came, wrapping himself in the clingfilm. He is like some happy submariner caught up in the tentacle of some resplendent clingfilm sea monster. Soon, Roy Orbison is again completely wrapped in clingfilm. The weight of years lifts from my shoulders and I am born anew, clean, fresh, almost infinitely vulnerable.
“You are completely wrapped in clingfilm,” I say, “and incidentally we are once more at the crossroads of the alleys.”
Roy makes noises.
“Yes,” I say. “If you will unreel that way . . . ”
One more time Roy commences to unreel his way down an alley, shedding clingfilm behind him. He is like some black-clad butterfly rashly emerging from some magnificent cocoon of clingfilm into a harsh cruel world.
Before too long he is again thoroughly divested of clingfilm.
Ulrich Haarbürste's Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm Page 8
