The Crimson Shaw

by Elyse Lortz

  And yet it never ceased to amaze me.

  William White—a balding gentleman who never ventured so much as a punctuation from the script—was far from how I had imagined Shaw’s Colonel Pickering. Rather than the character’s polite light-heartedness, the man reeked of aristocratic boredom. There was none of that considerate charm to counteract Higgins’ bullish lines. He lacked any gentlemanly goodness that ought to have erupted from a monument of kind mannerisms. Rather than being drawn to the noble character, I was suddenly repulsed by a snide, bald, old man.

  The young man chosen as Freddy Einsford-Hill—a Walter something or other—was, I thought, well suited for his role. Not out of some incredible talent for acting, but rather a general stupidity that flowed from his pores as thick and dense as mercury. I would not deny him his looks (a girl constantly dripping from his arm cemented that), but, were Behan a topic of conversation, I would not be the slightest bit shocked if he claimed the man to be his tailor. It was only by nothing less than divine intervention that I survived the first few hours, and if I were to carry myself into the evening without my sleeves tied together by leather belts, I knew I very well might require an appearance from God himself.

  When at last Harrison announced the lunch hour, I was aware of Keane cajoling me toward the door with Walter following close behind. God, how irksome his voice was; piercing the air in an octave typical of a young girl and with all the tact of a three year old boy. My companion steered me along the blistering sidewalks with a heavy hand to my shoulder. His long legs effortlessly swallowed the strips of pavement, the soles of his polished black shoes chewing the pebbles crumbling from the cracks. Walter must have ventured down another street, for I immediately felt Keane’s maddening pace slow enough for him to thread my arm through his. He bowed his head low to mine that I could feel the warmth of his breath even through the unforgivably torrid day.

  “‘Against stupidity the very gods themselves contend in vain.’”

  “Friedrich Schiller.” I dodged out of a cyclist’s oncoming path. “You used one of his poems for an essay, didn’t you?”

  “Ah, The Fortune-Favored.”

  As the poem’s mighty words began soundlessly trickling through my mind as calming waters, it was impossible not to recall Keane's sure and steady hand penning the final lines of that most acclaimed essay.

  “Men are not but overgrown children. There shall forever be those who trample the forests in lust of gold. There shall be those who dirty the rivers with all that is not coal. And then there shall be those—that mighty few—for which the world was made. They see the world, but are not of it. They taste the sweets of riches, but do not fall prey to its blessings. They love with all their might and soul, but have been hurt enough to know it is better to love in pain than to hate in death.”

  Keane glanced down at me with something I had rarely seen furrow his noble brow or invigorate so sharp a tongue.

  Pure shock.

  “Lawrence, I would not have thought those words necessary to put to memory.”

  “Necessity comes from what is true. It is almost like you had written them from experience, rather than merely scratching out some theory.” My feet faltered and stopped, pulling Keane to a screeching halt. “I am right, aren’t I? You were that third type of man.” He said nothing for so long a time I expected him to leave me wandering aimlessly through the wordless hush. It was a common practice of his, as habitual as the sun in day and moon at night. I had thought nothing would come of it, but, with a morose look down the bustling street, Keane again threaded my arm through his.

  “We all lead our own lives, Lawrence. We all love and hate with the same fervor as any other. My life is no different. I have made my mistakes and paid for them dearly. In the end, you must be able to live with yourself knowing you have given of your very best.”

  “‘To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance’” My companion chuckled, his blue eyes shedding away those few flecks of silver daring to appear.

  “Exactly, though I find myself rather different from that young Lord Goring.” I laughed. Keane was not only different from Wilde’s carefree character, but the exact opposite for as long as I had known him. Rarely did my companion enjoy the trivial for its own sake. Such things were, to him, ludicrous and deplorable.

  And yet, his distinct joy and adoration for life had not once wavered.

  Keane seemed to have a far better grasp of our destination than I, for the arm through which mine was securely threaded worked as a diligent rudder, steering a course along the pulsing streets. I have never again seen sights their like by any relation or relative acquaintance. Buildings jutted upwards along each side until one felt entirely surrounded by their presence. Lights danced below the sun. Pavement stunk with the heavy odor of hot rubber. Blinding colors vomited upon the world until the palm trees appeared to be sculpted from painted plastic and the buildings themselves whittled down to nothing more structurally sound than a wooden shell expertly positioned on a sound stage. For a place famous for glamour, it was no better than a facade of life. The great rushes of people all lead lives of their own, and yet they were threaded together by both lies and truths alike. The truths worked to create and strengthen a utopia idolized by all, and achieved by none, while the lies’ only success fell upon a want of advantage in a world that, in theory, ought be advantageous. It was a web of iron, weakened with the rust of corruption.

  KEANE LED ME INTO A little restaurant many blocks from the theatre. While it was of no major inconvenience, we had passed several other diners and cafes in favor of the light touch of music and the jovially Italian atmosphere. Each table was draped with identical cloths centered with freshly cut flowers. Several paintings spotted the walls with their various representations of life. Many were landscapes of colorful villas smiling over a rippling sea, but one or two depicted people walking the length and breadth of the canvas without having a care to where they were going or when they got there. A violin played giddily in the corner. Not Keane’s usual choice, but, knowing him as I did, the food was far more important than the exterior.

  A middle-aged man with peppered grey hair slicked back against his head merrily herded us into a booth shoved close against the front window. I slid first along the elongated leather seat while Keane slipped into the other side. He needed nothing more than a brief glance at the menu before sending the waiter away in his own tongue. I gaped at him.

  “Is there any language you can’t speak?” Keane chuckled good-naturedly and tugged at his left ear, a habit that was almost as infamous as his smoking.

  “I must admit oriental languages are rather less than my forte, but with romance languages, understanding one is nearly sufficient for them all. No doubt I could hold a conversation with any Spaniard and be the better for it.”

  “And the Italian?”

  “Ah, yes . . . well,” His slender fingers pulled almost violently at his ear. “That was taught to me by a rather good friend.”

  “When you say friend, do you mean a friend, or a friend?” Keane’s posture had never been straighter.

  “Really, Lawrence, you should learn to control that female curiosity of yours. Or ought I ask you about any male counterparts in your history?”

  “Point taken. However, if you so much as insinuate curiosity is a disease only befitting my sex, I should warn you that I still have my pocketknife and I would not hesitate to practice the Italian art of close shaves.”

  “Then I should also warn you I too have some familiarity with the realms of sharp weapons and would not hesitate to protect myself if I felt it necessary.”

  “Why, Keane,” I grinned unashamedly. “Are you saying that I may pose a threat to your mighty and masculine world? Or is it that bachelorhood you are so fond of that has made you fear the noble advancements in the lives of women?”

  My companion had not the chance to answer, for hot plates of fish covered in oils and a red sauce suddenly appeared before us, and our knives were
mercifully occupied by the baked sea life, rather than each other’s throats. The fish—salmon, I thought—was incredibly light considering the thick tomato sauce. The pasta was divine, an exquisite partnership between flavor and craftsmanship, and I made it a point to tell such to my companion. Again, he chuckled and his fork paused, if briefly, between the plate and his mouth.

  “La vie est trop courte pour boire du mauvais vin.”

  Life is too short to drink bad wine.

  Mercifully, lacking though my Italian may be, my French had been planted and molded at Keane’s hand from the moment I made his acquaintance. More than not, it was through the works of Victor Hugo, but there were others (Voltaire, for instance) who too watered that seed of knowledge interred within my mind.

  Now it flowed as easily as . . . well . . . good wine.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Autumn 1916—H.M.S. Greylag

  HORRID SCREAMS OF IMPENDING doom forced the boat to tremble as thousands of lead devils whizzed through the air. The turrets on the enemy vessel swung back and forth, spraying the deck with an onslaught of bullets. They needed to leave—to escape from the massacre—but where could they go? There was not but ocean past the ship’s rail. Boundaries had been painted in red blood as man by man dropped dead. Their flesh, once warm and full of life, soon laid cold against the stirring sea. And if it ever occurred to them, in the dawn of their youth, such a horrid fate might befall them, they showed no fear. The glassy eyes—unseeing as they were—would never again know the world as they had walked only moments before. A tangled mass of punctured limbs grew heavy as the end washed down upon them. Their fallen arms groped at the ankles of those left to carry on. The storm grew stronger as the devil’s rain ceaselessly dove down upon the screaming decks, but what could they do? Men fell like birds being picked off a wire, dropping away from the guns. As each weapon was freed, another man stepped forward only to be shot down into the sea. Brendan Keane heaved those breathing few onto his shoulders and carried them down below. Their bloody burdens grew lighter as he went. The sight of death—the stench of flesh—became customary to his senses. There were a few occasions when he would bend and pull a gasping friend onto his back only to lay him down again as he felt their grasp give way to an everlasting sleep. Sleep. Sleep. Eternal sleep. Everlasting sleep.

  Death.

  Each time he threw one of the lads onto his back, he muttered a quick prayer of thanks that it was neither James nor Fingal. But it was John. And John’s brother, Mark. And Ethan. And Brutus. And Edward. And Peter. And Jacob. And Mathew. And Lois. And Scott. And Reginald. And Maximous. And Charles. And—

  The screech of tearing metal singed Brendan’s right shoulder as a blast of feverish heat erupted in a mass of billowing smoke. It was as black as tar and just as thick in his lungs.

  He bent down and slung the next man’s arm over his shoulder and recognised him to be a Joe something or other. While the two men were approximately the same age, Joe’s thick build was nothing like Brendan’s slim and sturdy frame. God, he weighed a ton, but he was also at least semi-conscious and did his best to help. Together they made it to the hatch where several hospital apprentices stood by to take a gasping Joe Brown—yes, that was his name; Brown—down to the surgery. Brendan himself was panting, each quick indraw of breath burning his lungs with the black smoke of burning oil.

  Through the groans and cries along the deck, Brendan caught sight of Fingal a little ways off, slinging two—admittedly scrawny—men over his shoulders and fighting his way through the sea of corpses. Good man, he thought to himself as he staggered forward just as another round of bullets hailed the demise of another row of men, including a brown-haired youth who had been bravely manning one of the larger guns off the starboard side. God, if they lost that turret—

  Brendan could not finnish that thought completely, his mind whirling as he began sprinting along the blood slick decks with his long legs propelling him over the battered limbs. His cap had long since disappeared into the throng of discarded bodies, leaving his sand-blonde hair matted to his scalp by the ocean’s merciless arms. The front of his wool pea coat was soaked in the blood of several dozen men, but, by God, if he didn’t get that gun working again, there would very well be another several dozen lying on the deck.

  Not to mention himself.

  He threw himself behind the metal machinery and began swinging it back and forth across the enemy ship. It brought him no pleasure to see those other lads—the enemy, as they had been forced to believe—dropping into the water, but he had no viable option. There was a war on—a damnably enormous war—and he was going to help it along to its inevitable end. The steel in his hands was ice cold and nearly froze his fingertips, but he kept on, pummeling the other ship harder and harder until his heart thumped in rhythm with an ache in his head. A horrid scream dulled his senses in one instant, and yet, he was entirely aware of the strange sensation that he was flying. Flying? Men—human beings—certainly can not fly on their own accord. It was improbable. Impossible. Ridiculous.

  Get a hold on yourself, he thought wildly.

  For God’s sake, pull yourself together.

  But he could not, for just as his mind whirred back into motion, he realised something was wrong—terribly and horribly wrong—with his left shoulder.

  His flight ceased.

  He was falling.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  AS THE STORY GOES, Jesus was dead for three days.

  But for three days I walked through the hell only those entirely dedicated to the stage would willingly endure. James Harrison—director, producer, and devil’s advocate—mashed lines and blocking into my brain as a teacher tortures their students.

  (That’s the wrong line!)

  I played my role with dignity.

  (Louder, Jo! Project!)

  I carried myself as a soldier.

  (Move downstage!)

  My tongue was my weapon.

  (Faster Jo! Pacing!)

  My history was my present.

  (Damn it! Show some emotion!)

  And, most of all, I became ill with what can only be properly described as theatrical shell-shock. It was a disease I had not thought existed until I awoke abruptly on that third night with my arms gesticulating wildly through the bedclothes and a cold sweat chilling the vulnerable flesh on my neck. I immediately slipped into a dressing gown a size or so too large and shuffled off toward the kitchen. God, I needed something good. Something strong. Something—ah ha!

  I pulled the half-empty bottle from the rack and sought out a vessel through which my evil deed may be set. The cupboards were mostly bare of any practical china, but I did manage to find one of the chipped brandy glasses Keane had used a few nights before. There was a spider in it now, spinning a web along the cut patterns. The small thing looked at peace with its comfortable situation. Lucky bastard.

  But I suppose not everyone is meant to be so fortunate. Here he was, weaving his own path within the glass, while my world seemed to spin and whirl whenever I made a foundation for my life. Each time the tremor sent a crack into the concrete and I was either forced to fix it, or do away with what I had and start anew. In any case, it was a pain in the ruddy—

  “You should never drink alone.” I hadn’t heard him come in (damn carpeting) but I was more than aware of his presence by that sharp English tone that danced every so often with the last remnants of his Irish brogue. I began digging around in the cupboards again.

  “I read something about that once. Gone With the Wind, I think. Anyway, I was awake and it was here. Oh, Would you care for some?” There was that rich chuckle as he strode across the room.

  “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Should I? I thought time was relative.” Keane made a light humming sound as he gingerly picked up the bottle.

  “It is, in fact, four in the morning. Much too soon for this fine drink. Though I must say, your taste is improving. How about tea?”

  “An Irishman turni
ng down liquor? And I thought I had seen it all. Wait, you said America doesn’t have proper tea.” Keane swished some water around in the tea kettle, that impish glow absolutely radiating from his face as he bent over the sink.

  “My dear, Lawrence, you have forgotten one important fact.”

  “And that is?” He allowed the water to spew out the spout before filling it again. When that was set on the stove, he reached his hand into one of the vulgarly bright cookie jars, which was shaped—or rather misshapen—into the head of a disfigured elephant. From the animal’s porcelain head, my companion pulled a metal box I had seen inhabiting the cupboards of his own home in Devon, as well as the family house in Ireland. Or at least, it had been the family house. Now it sat—bereft of human life—with only Keane’s monetary support to continue the long traditions hidden in its walls. He dropped in on the counter with a comical clatter.

  Damn the man, I couldn’t help but laugh. He looked almost military, the collar of his cotton pajamas pressed neatly beneath his dressing gown and his greying hair fingered into something that dutifully resembled control. By God, he was almost like a man who had just staggered from the straight jacket, and I would have informed him so had the telephone not rung at that exact moment.

  “Blast the infernal machine.” Keane growled, abandoning the first puffs of steam from the kettle as he stormed into the sitting room. I took the tea tin from the counter and began turning it over in my hands. Keane’s tea was like his cigarettes, always there and always available. It stared down at the lid.

  Barry’s Tea.

  Of course.

  He seldom drank any other, unless it was put before him by a thoughtful—but nieve—host. The kettle began humming, then singing, then absolutely screeching for attention away from my thoughts. Instinctively I reached my hand out toward the angry pot, turned off the stove, and listened with an air of victory as the desperate cries settled to a soft whimper. I gingerly poured some of the loose tea leaves into a metal strainer before dropping it into a mug (of course an American would never have any available teacups) and pouring the steaming water into the pour excuse of ceramics. Once that was done, I reached for a second, equally hideous, cup which had no relation to any of the other objects in the cupboard.