According to Whitehall’s instructions—and without the slightest hesitation—Peace lay on the floor wearing only her panties. The floor was painted with a Day-Glo rainbow and sky, and against it, her white body looked like a cloud. In one hand, Whitehall held a new sable paintbrush with a red handle and a white head. In the other he held a Cadbury’s chocolates tin that was filled with black paint.
“Are you ready, luv?” he asked her.
She nodded, contented, as if she was lying on a soft baby blanket instead of a hard, painted basement floor. Whitehall’s first move was to circle her left nipple with an inch-wide black outline.
Henry didn’t know if he was more troubled by Peace’s nude body or by Whitehall’s unabashedly nonartistic delight in it. Whatever the case, it was clear to Henry fairly quickly that neither Peace nor Whitehall had the slightest interest in his presence, and it crossed his mind at least briefly that they might be waiting for him to leave.
7
Under the Table at the Scotch of St. James
Henry was lying under a table at the Scotch of St. James. He had sucked on a sugar cube an hour before, and the acid had just kicked in. Beside him was Martin Doyle, the Great Martini, and beside him—also under the table—was a record producer whose name Henry couldn’t remember but whose face looked disturbingly—and, minute by minute, increasingly—like a clown’s.
“You’re Peace’s shag, right?” Martini asked him.
Henry could see the words coming out of Martini’s mouth, just as if they’d been drawn. He smiled.
“Right?” Martini repeated, and the word floated there. It was like the last scene in Submarine, when the words appear above John as he sings “All you need is love.” Henry wanted to tell this to Martini, but he knew it was far too complex a thought. So he simply smiled again.
“She’s a tart,” Martini said.
“Apple tart,” Henry said, not focusing.
“No, man. She’s a tart. A real tart,” Martini said, then crawled off to another table.
Henry looked up toward Peace’s legs. She was wearing a pair of fishnet stockings, and in his state, Henry thought for a moment that he saw actual fish.
IT WAS NOT A GOOD TRIP, though it was more exotic than truly disturbing; what Henry saw—even as he tried to escape the experience—was unpleasant but not unbearable. What he saw was an animalized world—actually not that different from the world he had learned to see and to draw at Disney. Martini, for example, was unmistakably a bear—somewhat along the lines of Baloo in The Jungle Book, but polar-bear pale. The small round tables on their center legs were storks, and the chairs were dogs and cats.
The fish in the fishnet stockings moved suddenly, slapping against each other. Henry grabbed hold of one of them, and Peace’s hand appeared on her knee, then her face beside her knee, and then she fluttered down to sit beside him under the table. Peace turned out to be a bird—a dove or pigeon—her nose beakish, her hair feathery.
“Did you sleep with him?” Henry asked Peace. Her skinny knees, above the tops of her boots, looked as if they’d been drawn by two smile lines.
“With who?”
“With Mr. Fate.”
“Of course,” she said.
“To get the part?”
“Of course,” she said. “That’s what everyone does.”
She was right, but Henry didn’t care that she was right.
He tried to locate the feeling—as weirdly unfamiliar as a sudden illness or a stranger’s rage. He knew he had felt it some time before: a blend of fear, amazement, and hollowness. But Peace’s reaction to his reaction was easier to recognize. He saw it in the set of her lips, in the torque of her shoulders, the almost coquettish look in her eyes that said: What did you expect of me? Don’t tell me you couldn’t have seen this coming. This was the look he himself had given so many times before—starting all the way back with Daisy, way back on the night of the fire at Humphrey.
“It’s the way it works,” Peace said.
“Did you sleep with Whitehall too?” Henry asked her.
“What do you want me to say?”
“These guys are just using you,” Henry said.
“And what’s wrong with that? It’s my body, you know. Nobody owns me.”
Henry tried to answer Peace for a brief, awful, familiar moment, but he couldn’t say a thing.
“YOU REALIZE, OF COURSE,” Victoria told him, “that you are attempting to zig whilst the rest of the world is zagging.”
They were sitting on one of the leather couches in the office on Monday afternoon, before a mess of lunch plates and cups that the previous diners had left behind.
“What do you mean?” Henry asked her.
“You’re attempting the vine-covered cottage bit during the only time in history when not a single soul in the entire known world is being remotely monogamous.”
Henry got to his feet and began to gather the paper plates and cups. Victoria lit a cigarette and watched him carelessly.
“Do you love her?” Victoria asked.
“Yes,” Henry said. “I do.”
“How do you know?” she asked him. He was aware that there was something more than sisterly in her inquiry, but for the moment he decided that he would ignore it and hear her advice anyway.
“I know because—I don’t know. I don’t get tired of her. I want to be with her.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Do you want to be with her now?”
Victoria asked the question as if it were clinical, not personal, but again it felt to Henry more like some form of flirtation.
“Now?” he asked. “This minute? No. This minute I want to kill her.”
Victoria crossed her legs at the ankles, leaning back into the couch. “Kill her?” she said. “Really, Harry? I didn’t think you could feel that.”
“Feel what?” Henry asked.
“Are you sure you want to kill her? Or do you just want to trade her in?”
Henry looked at Victoria. “How did you know that?”
“Harry. You’re hardly a mystery.”
“I’m not?”
It felt good to flirt back. It felt as if he had just had something returned to him that he’d been missing. After all, he was much more accustomed to this than to sincerity, jealousy, and rage.
Finally, he slid down the leather couch to sit beside her, and then he pivoted onto his right hip while she pivoted onto her left. They faced each other. She looked both wry and needy, but the wryness was more appealing to him than the neediness was unappealing. He kissed her, totally unsurprised by the enthusiasm with which she kissed him back. It was the rapid, not particularly interesting answer to a question that had been only marginally more interesting to ask.
He knew it would be their only kiss. It wasn’t because he felt guilty about Peace, or even felt indifferent to her. It was, rather, his sense of Victoria, a sense of bottomless longing that was too much like Martha’s, or maybe his own.
YELLOW SUBMARINE WAS DUE to premiere in July. Throughout the spring and early summer, days and nights—never religiously differentiated before—blended entirely. It was not unusual for an animator to come into the studio on a Monday morning and, buoyed by successive tides of naps, snacks, and carts of bangers and mash, not leave until Wednesday or Thursday night. There were always people sleeping on the couches now, and often there were ink-and-paint girls napping in the camera room. At Disney, the ranks of animators and painters had usually dwindled as units finished their work. But here, with an intractable deadline and increasing hysteria from the distributors, more people were being added all the time. As the deadline for delivery neared, the producers sent word out to the London art schools, and now in the evenings vans and buses pulled up to the Soho studio, disgorging students who formed a delighted night shift, donning white gloves to color in the Beatles and their fantastical world.
————
PEOPLE HAD SPENT WEEKS angling for tickets, and tr
ying to get one for Peace would have done Henry no good, even if he’d been so inclined. With the rest of the animators, he had been relegated to a balcony seat at the huge London Pavilion.
“You’ll sneak me in,” Peace said on the morning of the opening.
“Not a chance. There are assigned seats, Peace,” he said.
“Well, someone might not show,” she said.
“Why don’t you ask Mr. Fate to bring you? Or Martini? Or Whitehall?” Henry asked her bitterly.
“I did.”
Their eyes flashed and met.
“Please, Henry?” she said.
“I can’t.”
“You could if you wanted to. You’re just still mad at me.”
She was standing in front of the mirror and using a long, fine comb to tease the top of her hair higher. Then she slipped on what he thought of as her Puss-in-Boots boots, swung her patent-leather bag over her left shoulder, and walked out the door. He wanted to say he was sorry, but she’d been right: He was still mad at her.
THE STREETS WERE MOBBED for blocks and blocks with Beatles fans wearing yellow shirts, yellow pants, yellow gloves, yellow sunglasses. Around the theater, bobbies in uniforms exactly like the constables’ in Mary Poppins linked arms to hold back the fans, who were relentlessly singing the chorus of “Yellow Submarine” and hoping for a glimpse of the Beatles. Most of them never had a chance; the Four drove up in sequence and took turns posing with a huge Blue Meanie, as arm-waving and expressionless as any Disneyland figure.
Inside, Henry and Victoria sat in the balcony with a bunch of ink-and-paint girls. Victoria was a study in forced enthusiasm. Ever since their one kiss—with the exception of one silent, pouty follow-up day—she had been, in Henry’s view, stoically peppy, married, and mod. She pointed out, in the packed audience below them, several of the Rolling Stones, as well as Eric Clapton and Ringo. Henry spotted Twiggy as well, and felt a pang: Peace worshipped Twiggy and would have loved to see her up close. But just as Henry was recalling the morning’s conversation, he looked down from the balcony and saw Peace, with a yellow boa, flouncing down the aisle holding the arm of some man in a pink suede jacket. Something wrenched inside Henry, almost a physical tear, and he found himself changing positions in his seat, as if trying to get away from pain.
When the lights went down, for a moment before the film started, Henry could still hear the sounds of the crowd outside and imagine Peace navigating her way through it, yellow boa soaring. But then, quite unexpectedly, he was immersed in the world he had helped to make. “Once upon a time,” the narrator’s voice intoned, “or maybe twice …”
All along, they had joked that the story wouldn’t matter as long as the music was loud. In reality, though, it was neither the story nor the music that pulled Henry along, or even the jokes and surprises and the rare mixture of styles. It was, in the end, the colors: the amazingly deep, incredibly vibrant, psychedelic colors. As often as Henry had seen them in the studio, he was astonished by what they did on the screen.
Even Victoria dropped her supercasual pose just long enough to seem similarly thrilled, nudging Henry in the ribs. “Bloody hell,” she whispered when the long first scenes were over and the titles finally came up, along with the title song.
THREE MONTHS LATER, Henry sat in another opening-night audience, this time for the London premiere of Hair. It was all Peace had talked about when she had been home long enough and coherently enough to talk at all. The play was subtitled “The American Tribal Love-Rock Musical,” and Peace never referred to the cast, only to “the Tribe.” It wasn’t until Henry was watching the show that he realized that Berger and Claude and Sheila were characters, not fellow actors.
Peace looked beautiful, a sash tied Indian-style around her forehead. She danced and sang and swayed and, with the others, got briefly and unshockingly nude. Henry tried to connect her either to the woman he lived with or to the character she was playing. He could do neither. But despite everything—despite even his simmering anger at what he now knew were her constant infidelities—he was moved to another burst of hope by the words of one exuberant song:
And peace will guide the planets.
And love will steer the stars.
8
Lost Something, Sweetie?
It was their second autumn in London. Henry hoped that would make a difference. First times were for travelers and tourists, he thought. Second times were for people who had made a place home.
It was a chilly season, and rain, as it had the first year, came swift and gray, leaching the colors out of the city. Henry worked in color all day long. With the movie over, and no immediate substitute in sight, he had reluctantly landed a job through Geoff Whitehall, painting murals for a new discotheque called the Logical Alternative. The murals were entirely Whitehall’s designs—already classic combinations of flowers, rainbows, stars, and mythic creatures. But the job was perfect for Henry, demanding patience, precision, and virtually no invention. He was one of a team of only three artists, and they worked in separate areas of the disco, close enough for the occasional tiff about the choice of radio station but far enough apart so that their brushes never met.
It was for Henry a particular joy not to have to job out the colors to the usual set of ink-and-paint girls. Not since the summer at Wilton, when he had painted first the practice house and then the building where Mary Jane worked, had Henry’s hands, shoes, and hair been so often spattered with paint. Even now, even on a too-early October morning, with the empty club, the bad coffee, and the nagging sense that things with Peace were still not what he wanted them to be—even now Henry could remember the way the peach juice had trickled down his arm over the tangerine paint on the day he had first had sex.
November came, and as the brick walls of the club deepened with color, lunch was served up daily by whatever chef the owner was trying out. One of the artists flirted with Henry. So did one of the waitress trainees, and several of the auditioning dancers. Victoria called a few times, her pretexts growing more forced and her airiness less convincing. Henry perceived every one of these women as a viable option, and thus as at least a minor sacrifice. But he still wanted Peace.
Predictably, and perhaps alluringly, he saw less and less of her now. She was always asleep when he got up and left for work in the morning. Her show, it was true, didn’t end until ten-thirty, and then there was the inevitable comedown—unachievable, apparently, without some sort of drug or drink. Most of Peace’s contributions to the flat—even the ones that had involved theft more than industry—had halted now. Sometimes in the evenings, Henry would lie back on his side of the bed and try to plan what he would paint on these walls. The empty landscape stretched before him. It was still the inviting two-tone backdrop of green and blue it had been when they’d first moved in. It could have been Pennsylvania, or the woods behind Humphrey. It could have been California, or the British countryside.
Henry tried to decide what to put on the wall. There was pale blue sky and there was deep green grass. For a moment, he allowed himself to go back to Wilton, back to the closet where he had painted the field, the Ray, the car, and had first discovered the vibrant freedom of an existence without Martha. Nostalgia struck him, but without any precision.
Sometimes, even down their little side street, a car would pass, its lights would throw a shadow onto the wall, and Henry would try in vain to catch those shadows and find meaning in them.
NOVEMBER WAS FRIGID, and Peace took to pulling the covers away from Henry at night. Usually, she slept in total, almost scary stillness. Henry had watched her many times. He knew sometimes it was only drugs or drinking that made her sleep so deeply. But even when she napped or when she had had a night that was sober and straight, she was normally immobile in her sleep. These days, it seemed, it was more common for her to turn and startle.
He wondered if she was ill. He imagined nursing her. He would bring her soup on a tray, the way that Martha had brought it to him. As always, he was surprised
when he had any memory of Martha, let alone a good one. But he could taste the chicken soup, feel the cold shiver of the darkness behind the window in the practice house.
Peace opened her mouth in her sleep and licked her lips, which looked dry. She scrunched herself into a tight ball. Henry put his arms around her and fell asleep, trying to keep her warm.
HE WOKE TO THE SOUND OF HER RETCHING, a forlorn and foreign sound that he mistook at first for a street noise. When he had located the sound, he sprang out of bed, as if there was something he was supposed to do. The bathroom door was closed, the collage on the doorframe looking puckered in the daylight, a two-dimensional time capsule of some things that Peace had liked.
He put on the kettle and took the tea down from the shelf. By the time Peace opened the bathroom door, he had remade the bed, fixed her the tea, and placed the cup on the stack of old magazines that served as her makeshift night table.
“Why aren’t you dressed?” she asked him. “Shouldn’t you be on your way to work?”
He said, “Are you okay?”
“I got sick,” she said. She sounded and looked about five years old.
“I know, baby,” he said, and for once she didn’t object to the nickname.
“I’m sorry,” she said, looking embarrassed.
“Come and get into bed,” Henry told her.
She was wearing nothing but her panties and a sleeveless baby-doll nightgown.
“Come on, let me get you warm,” he said.
“I’m fine,” she said.
Her skin was the color of sourdough bread.
“Get into bed,” he told her again.
The Irresistible Henry House Page 35
