“Now to escape from these alleys,” says Roy.
It is not to be, however, for right in front of us the alley comes to a dead end!
“Logic and reason have failed us,” says Roy in a small quiet disconsolate voice. “The Enlightenment was a lie and we are but the playthings of malevolent forces beyond our ken.”
“This is the first alley we attempted to navigate with help of the clingfilm tether,” I say. “In our excitement at imminent escape I fear one of us has again made a mistake and chosen the wrong path. There is nothing for it but to again return to the crossroads by means of—”
“Yes, yes, I will again spin into the clingfilm,” says Roy.
For a fourth time Roy commences to rotate back the way we have come in such a way as to reel the clingfilm around him. He is like some Chinese ribbon dancer with the good taste to wield a marvelous state-of-the-art transparent ribbon. Soon, Roy Orbison is yet again completely spooled with clingfilm. O Düsseldorf, I think, O mother of prodigies! All ages shall account you blessed for this day’s work.
“You are completely wrapped in clingfilm and we have once more arrived at the junction of the ways,” I announce. “Now. We know the way we have just come, and I believe the alley opposite is the one we tried before that. Further than that my memory will not stretch. But we are left with two alleys which may grant us egress. I propose we try one and leave Jetta here in front of the other as an aide-mémoire, so that in the event the first we try is a failure there will be no mistaking the one that is left.”
Roy makes noises that may be “The plan is sound.” I place Jetta in front of one alley with reassurances that we will not long be gone. Roy commences to unspool himself up another.
All too soon he is yet again divested of clingfilm. And yet again we find we have reached a dead end.
“Oh well,” I say. “At least now we can positively, absolutely be sure that the final remaining alley must be the one we want.”
“I strive to share your optimism,” says Roy. “I will once more rotate my way back to the crossroads in such a way as to gather the clingfilm about me.”
For a further time Roy Orbison spins his way back to the junction in such a way as to spool the clingfilm about him. From above he must resemble some lucky yo-yo on a clingfilm thread. Soon, Roy Orbison is yet again completely wrapped in clingfilm. Were I to enter a yodeling competition at this moment I would undoubtedly be the winner.
“You are, again, entirely wrapped in clingfilm,” I note.
Now we are back at the junction where Jetta waits patiently marking the entrance to another alley.
“Unless some horrendous mischance has occurred it seems certain that this alley is the way we want to go,” I say.
Without further ado Roy commences to unreel his way down that alley. All too soon he is again bereft of clingfilm.
However, it then becomes apparent that a horrendous mischance has indeed occurred.
“Oh no,” I say, “I have some terrible information. I almost fear to tell you.”
“He who shoots the messenger will soon find no one brings him news,” says Roy wisely. “Do not hesitate to impart your information.”
I say, “I have just now recognized the same dustbin as we saw last time. We are again heading back toward Yul’s.”
Roy is silent for a time.
“I confess to some chagrin,” he says. “How could this mischance have come about?”
“I can only think that while we were in the other alley Jetta must have moved slightly. If this is the case then she has neglected her duty as a marker.”
“Let us not blame Jetta,” says Roy magnanimously. “It is in a terrapin’s nature to move slightly. I acquit her of any malfeasance.”
“That is generous of you, Roy.”
“Nevertheless this comes as a heavy blow. It is all up with us, old friend. It seems we are fated to roam these alleys like lost souls until the end of time.”
“Perhaps we had better settle down here for the night,” I say. “We would be at the mercy of the elements but I am sure if I put my mind to it I can think of some way of keeping us warm. Perhaps I can improvise . . . something to wrap around us . . .”
“I for my part am resolved to escape these alleys or die in the attempt,” says Roy nobly.
“You will not die!” I exclaim in alarm. “Never! Not ever! It is by no means possible!”
“I do not literally expect to die,” says Roy, “although at this point I confess to some dizziness.”
I say, “Then we must quickly put an end to this. Let us think.” I think. “You know,” I say, “now I come to think rigorously, I do not believe we have tried the right-hand alley yet. Moreover, the streetlamp which can just be glimpsed at the far end of it would seem to indicate that it debouches onto a more frequented thoroughfare.”
Roy is again silent for some moments.
“I had not noticed such a lamp,” he says. “My night vision is not all it should be owing to the chromatic filtering tendencies of my trademark dark glasses.”
“Do not upbraid yourself, Roy,” I say. “It is a small distant light, easily missed, so insignificant that I have only just thought to mention it. Perhaps I should have done so earlier.”
“In a situation of crisis nothing is insignificant,” says Roy. “A decision taken with less than total information is likely to be erroneous. In this instance you have not arranged things with your customary efficiency.”
I bow my head in acknowledgment of the rebuke.
“Then if you will once more rotate your way back to the crossroads in such a way as to gather the clingfilm about you . . . ?”
“With joy and zeal,” says Roy.
One more time Roy rotates back the way we have come in such a way as to gather the clingfilm about him with my aid. He is like some whirling dervish spinning across desert sands and into the cool embrace of some silvery river. Soon, Roy Orbison is once more completely wrapped in clingfilm. I am drowning in bliss and would not thank you for a lifebelt.
“You are back at the crossroads,” I say, “and as it happens, completely wrapped in clingfilm.”
Without more ado Roy commences to unspool down the right-hand alley. He is like some careless urchin thoughtlessly discarding a magnificent silvery scarf his doting mother has wrapped about him.
All too soon he has again shed all of the clingfilm bar the tether around his waist. There has been no mistake this time and the alley seems refreshingly unfamiliar and a streetlamp can indeed be seen in the distance.
“Also,” says Roy, “I confess to some relief. Now to gain egress from the alleyways.”
“Yes,” I say. “But hold! What of the clingfilm left strewn between here and the crossroads? It must of course be gathered. Besides, due to an oversight I left Jetta back there. I fear we must go back one last time.”
“Scheisse,” says Roy.
One more final time Roy rotates into the clingfilm back the way he has come so that it is spooled about him. He is like some thick black stick rotated in a cotton candy centrifuge in such a way as to gather cotton candy about it, except not cotton candy but clingfilm. Soon, Roy Orbison is one more time completely spooled with clingfilm. If I had a hat, I would fling it high in the air and not care where it landed.
“You are back at the crossroads,” I say, “completely wrapped with clingfilm.”
I sigh and mentally take my leave of the scene of so much happiness.
However, a problem occurs and it seems there is now a price to be paid. For I am faced with the necessity of unwrapping Roy from the clingfilm!
In all due conscience I have no excuse not to do so and yet my very hand balks and writhes back upon me as I strive to begin. I steel myself to the task and force myself to grasp the clingfilm with a view to rending it asunder and then mercifully pass out and collapse lifeless to the ground.
When I come to it is to find that Roy has taken matters into his own hand and is spinning industriously about the lit
tle square formed by the junction of the alleys in such a way as to unspool. There is not much room to maneuver and he rebounds off walls a couple of times but at length he succeeds. I repress a whimper as he unties the end of the roll from around his waist.
Jetta is staring at me in concern but I reassure her I am well and rise shakily to my feet.
“I am sorry, Roy,” I say. “Regrettably I fainted.”
“It is understandable after the tension,” says Roy. “Now at last we can bid farewell to this place.”
I have already said farewell to this little moonlit urban bower of joy.
I pick up Jetta and we set off up the alley, Roy reeling unsteadily as he goes. He seems to have an urge to continue spinning and occasionally turns right round.
This is the end of the chapter.
Chapter 20
You will recall that after wandering about the back alleys for some time we had at last found a means of egress.
The alley continues for some distance but at the end we find ourselves in a street that is somewhat better lit.
At this point I know where we are but the knowledge gives me no joy. For we find we have wandered into the scary part of town.
I wish that I could write with the zest of Charles Dickens in order that I might adequately describe the scenes of degradation we are faced with. Unkempt figures slink through the shadows, their hair ungroomed and their shoelaces undone.
An unshaven man known to have designed a substandard car coughs politely and requests alms from people he has not been introduced to.
Unlicensed street vendors loudly advertise sausages, which may have been cooked in conditions of less than adequate hygiene.
A coffee shop is open for business although it is past ten o’clock, careless of the fact that anyone who imbibes their wares at this point is unlikely to obtain a satisfactory night’s sleep. Through the window I glimpse such dubious patrons as a circus clown, a disgraced town councillor and those who eke out a precarious living as trick-cyclists or yo-yo performers. Students dog-ear text-books before my eyes or agitatedly discuss controversial banking theories, so far forgetting themselves as to speak both at once and rudely jab fingers at each other in their mania. From the open doorway comes the sound of shameless boasting and impolite personal remarks.
The air is filled with the squeaking of badly oiled bicycles and the nervous moans of those who do not have adequate pension schemes. The very street sweepers appear slovenly and badly disposed toward their work and neglect to brush the tricky corners next to doorsteps.
“What mean streets are these?” asks Roy rhetorically.
“I am sorry you should have to glimpse Düsseldorf’s dark underbelly in this way,” I say.
I hug Jetta tighter, although whether to reassure her or myself I do not know.
Reader, it is a novelist’s duty to reflect all aspects of society, and it is not right that you should turn your eyes from such unfortunate souls. But it is certainly understandable that you should wish to. I will have mercy on you now and call an end to the chapter in order that you might have a respite.
Chapter 21
The time has now come to leave myself and Roy for a moment. For now I must tell you of something which I, as a novelist, am aware of, but I, in the story, am not.
A short distance away at a corner booth inside that very same immoral cafe we are regarding with such horror sit two degraded figures. They are very much at home among all the defrocked librarians and proponents of specious banking theories and indeed are far worse than either, if truth were known. Although I in the story am not aware of these men as yet, I as the author must tell you that they are thoroughgoing villains and scoundrels of the deepest dye.
Come, let us listen to their conversation and you shall see.
“Good evening,” says one.
“Good evening,” says the other.
“Are you well?” says the first.
“I am very well, thank you,” says the second.
“That is good,” says the first. “Or rather, that is bad, for as a thoroughgoing nihilist all my moral values are inverted and I confess it rejoices me to hear of ill health in others. However, as we are bound by a common purpose I suppose it is welcome news to know that your health is adequate to carry out our nefarious plan.”
“Apart from a slight sniffle I am in the best of health,” says the second.
“Then I hope you die of your sniffle but only after our plan is concluded,” says the first, maliciously if pragmatically.
“I know where you are coming from,” says the second. “I for my part cordially hope you fall down an inadequately signposted mine-shaft the second our business is transacted.”
The first chuckles magnanimously at this sally. “You are my kind of scoundrel!” he says. They both laugh loudly.
Such villains! What can their meeting portend? Read on and you will see. . .
“So,” says the first villain, “we should seek to ensure that our nefarious meeting draws no unwanted attention. To avert suspicion perhaps we should order some coffee.”
“But it is past ten o’clock,” says the second. “We are unlikely to obtain an adequate night’s sleep afterwards.”
“Pah! ” says the first villain contemptuously. “I often drink coffee so late as quarter to eleven. It means I stay up until two in the morning and have to go to the bathroom in the night but I do not care!”
“Well,” says the second villain, seeking not to lose face, “I have often gone to bed at four in the morning!”
“And I have often not gone to bed at all!” says the first.
“Also,” says the second, impressed. “But your brain must pay the price for it?”
“It is so,” says the first villain sadly. “I have botched many crimes because of my contempt for the natural sleep cycle.”
“Perhaps,” suggests the second villain, “we could order a coffee, but only pretend to drink it?”
“That is wise,” says the first villain. “But,” he adds, “we will pay for it with a trick coin!”
The two of them laugh hysterically.
Such infamy! I would spare you such degraded scenes if I could, but then my carefully wrought plot would make no sense. The novelist’s duty is often an onerous one and I can spare myself no more than you.
I will, however, bring the chapter to a close and thereby grant you another brief respite.
Chapter 22
Some distance along from the cafe the scary street joins onto a somewhat busier road.
“With luck we may obtain a bus or tram nearby,” I say.
“I wish to be away from this place with all possible celerity,” says Roy. “It is extravagant to the point of profligacy but I intend to hail a taxi.”
So we stand on the corner and attempt to hail taxis as they pass. However, none stops for quite some time, either because they are already occupied or because the drivers are scared to stop in such a low neighborhood where people may forget to wipe their feet before getting in.
Meanwhile, back in the low coffee house the two villains continue to talk.
They have bought a coffee and paid for it with a trick coin attached to a length of thread which they have yanked back to them out of the hapless waiter’s pocket as soon as he has departed.
“Ha ha ha,” says the first villain, “a man can live like a king with a coin such as this.”
“Of course,” points out the second villain, “we are causing considerable economic irregularity by obtaining goods in such a fashion.”
“I do not care,” says the first villain, and they laugh.
Practiced at deception, they pretend to drink their coffees with many a smack of the lips and sigh of “Ah, that is the real Joe,” but really they have not come to drink but to connive. . .
“So,” says the first villain, “you are an evil criminal then?”
“Yes,” says the second, “and I take it you are as well?”
“Yes,” says the first, “bu
t I do not wish the fact widely advertised.”
“It is agreed,” says the second. “Secrecy is advantageous in our chosen profession, as is ruthlessness. Anyone who stumbles on our rascally plans or impedes our dirty work must be pitilessly put to death or at least locked up in a dark cupboard for many years.”
“I am prepared for that eventuality,” says the first. “I confess I even welcome it.”
“Many people would decry such an attitude and yet I do not find it in my heart to condemn you, for zeal in our chosen profession almost demands it.”
“It is so,” says the first. “Not to speak boastfully, but I have done many bad things in my time. I am glad you do not condemn me, for we are outcast and despised by normal people.”
“Yes, the villain’s life can be a solitary one and moreover offers little in the way of long-term security and pension schemes,” says the second villain sadly. “Added to that the hours are irregular and we see little of the world beyond dark back alleys and ill-swept dens. Frankly if I had my time over again I would go into some more pleasant line of work.”
“As for me,” says the first, “I would still become a villain but I think I might also have some more stable career to fall back on.”
“How did you start on the sorry path to villainy?”
“I began in the ordinary way, with littering and cutting in line. I logically proceeded to murder and tax evasion and now I estimate I have done all the crimes there are. I am so hardened in crime that I now take a positive delight in flouting the social conventions. I leave my shoelaces untied, I do not comb my hair, and I am cavalier with the use of umlauts.”
“I have not yet become so degraded, although I sometimes neglect to brush my teeth,” says the second villain. “Naturally I am glad to find you will stop at nothing, and yet I feel I should caution you against leaving your laces untied. It is a transgression that can bring you no material advantage and may actually do you harm, like crossing the road against the traffic lights.”
“Pah,” says the first villain contemptuously, “I often cross against the lights, for the sheer metaphysical evil of it.”
Ulrich Haarbürste's Novel of Roy Orbison in Clingfilm Page 9
