This was Wednesday. On weekdays he had grapefruit juice, bran flakes, and lemon tea at breakfast but this morning he felt the need of his Sunday breakfast: a soft-boiled egg and two slices of toast instead of the bran flakes. He injected his insulin, poured the grapefruit juice, put the kettle on, started the toast, shook a few drops of malt vinegar into the pot, put the egg in, opened the Times, and read that animals in some British zoos were on Prozac and Valium.
The phone rang; it was Melissa. ‘Yes?’ he said, immediately ready for whatever she might suggest.
‘Prof dear, around ten this evening could you go to Gallery 7 at my site, scroll down to the bottom of the page, and click on YES for a one-to-one? Thanks. Must run. Kisses from you-know-where.’
When he was at his desk he worked on notes for the Klimt book. ‘Pornography has always been part of the visual arts,’ he wrote. ‘I don’t recall any pornographic cave drawings but their art was more elemental, more religious – Mother-Goddess figures, fertility symbols – procreation and survival – huge breasts and buttocks – Venus of Willendorf. And the Greeks! Raunchy Athenian red-figure vase-painters drew the line at nothing. Oral sex? Can’t recall. Everything else, certainly, one-on-one and in combinations. What would those vases fetch at Sotheby’s now? The Romans weren’t far behind, look at Pompeii: probably half of them were in flagrante when Vesuvius blew. X-rated petrified corpses. India – they couldn’t get enough of it. They would have had to do Advanced-level yoga before they could even manage those positions. Krishna and the cowgirls. And the Europeans: Rembrandt did it – Vermeer? He did a brothel scene with a madame and some punters fully dressed but no hardcore. Vermeer painted moments in arrest. What would he have done with some of the ANGELICA’S GROTTO activities? The mind boggles. An authentic Vermeer of a woman in period underwear accommodating five men would set an all-time auction record. All the recent masters put their hands to pornography: Daumier, Millet, Lautrec, Picasso, Pascin. The B-List masters too: Felicien Rops and his giant willies; Bruno Schulz and the naked woman with the stallions and the little eunuch – no penetration except in the cerebral cortex. How am I going to get through the day?
‘I have a craving that can only be satisfied by a disaster film – air, sea, or submarine, I don’t care which; but preferably one where somebody survives through sheer pluck and resourcefulness plus maybe a little help.’ He went to his current stack of air, sea, and submarine disasters, considered Freefall: Flight 174; Mercy Mission – the Rescue of Flight 771; A Night to Remember; The Last Voyage; and Gray Lady Down, which starred Charlton Heston and made Klein think of Airport 1975 with Heston and Karen Black. ‘Yes!’ he said, ‘That’s the one: there she is with a great big hole in the front of the 747 and nobody to fly it but her. Were the pilot and co-pilot sucked out through the broken windows after the other plane hit them? Have I recorded that one? Did I record something else over it? Can’t remember.’
Klein owned more than a thousand videotapes in shelves, boxes, and various stashes. After about an hour of moving the ones in front away from the ones behind and the ones on top from those on the bottom, with pauses for rejoicing over long-lost treasures, he satisfied himself that Airport 1975 was gone. By now Must Have had set in and he accepted it without demur. ‘Never mind,’ he said, as he went to the telephone, ‘I can hire it from Blockbusters.’
Blockbusters didn’t have it, nor HMV, nor Virgin, nor the National Film Theatre shop. ‘It’s no longer listed,’ was the telephone consensus.
‘A secondhand copy!’ said Klein. He put on his jacket and went to the local music and video exchange. When he asked his question they looked at him the way bartenders in films look at detectives.
‘We haven’t even got Airport or Airport ’77,’ one of them said without moving his lips.
‘Do you know of any place that does video searches?’
They both shrugged. ‘No idea.’
‘Of course,’ said Klein. ‘That’s the way things are – I understand. You could at least move your lips.’
‘You need help getting to the door, Grandad?’
‘Thank you, I can manage. What happened to the old-fashioned specialised geek? Have a nice day.’
At home he dialled the NFT shop again, was given the number of a place that did video searches. They were closed for two weeks starting now, said their answering machine. ‘No problem,’ said Klein. ‘It isn’t personal, it’s just business.’
By now he had attained the calm that comes when Must Have has exhausted its passion. The sun having sunk almost below the yardarm he poured himself the first Glenfiddich of the post-Must Have, went to his computer, and put Cinemania ’97 up on the screen. He didn’t have to load the CD-ROM – it was always in the machine. When Cinemania ’97 showed its contents he went to FIND and typed in Airport 1975 which caused five lines of text to appear in which Leonard Maltin said it wasn’t worth Klein’s time.
‘Right,’ he said, ‘if I look at the other reviews and the cast list maybe I can reconstruct it in what’s left of my mind.’ He read the Ebert and Kael reviews and looked at the cast list. ‘O Jesus – there’s Helen Reddy, the singing nun, and Sid Caesar reactivated but they should have let him lie. Gloria Swanson, of course! As herself with a jewel box and dictating her memoirs. Myrna Loy! They never die, they just get sent to disaster films. Along with ex-stars the usual cross-section of young lovers, old diehards, businessmen regretting they haven’t told their wives, children, dogs and cats they love them, and wives running off with tennis pros.
‘But the star of the film is Karen Black at the controls with her eyes close together in concentration and the wind ruffling her hair – she’s scared out of her knickers but dead game while they try to talk her through it on the radio and finally they put her lover, Charlton Heston, on the mike – he’s a veteran pilot and he’ll talk her down safely but no, this is no job for a stewardess however ballsy and they’ve got to put a man on the flight deck. Scramble a helicopter, hook a 747 pilot on to a line, match speeds and swing him in through the window. Oops! Didn’t make it. The line was severed by the jagged hole or he unhooked before he was all the way in and he’s gone. Well, he was the wrong guy, wasn’t he – this is a job for Charlton Heston. Aha! It’s an Angelica-Ruggiero situation: she’s naked in her ignorance of flying, she’s virgin at the controls; the 747 is the monster that’s going to devour her, but wait! Here comes Charlton Heston on his helicopter hippogriff. Will he make it? Yes! Through the broken hymen of the window he squirms. Gotcha, baby!
‘Where is my Ruggiero? Or have I said that before?’
28
Pillow Talk
‘I’ll wait till quarter-past, maybe half-past ten,’ said Klein. ‘Why should she take me for granted? Waiting waiting waiting.’ He waited till five past, logged on to the Internet, and moused his way to Angelica’s Grotto. He clicked on a few of his favourite Gallery 7 thumbnails to kill five more minutes, then scrolled down to the YES or NO place and clicked YES.
IS THAT YOU, PROFESSOR?
IT’S ME, LOLA.
SO? HOW’S IT HANGING?
REARWISE?
WHATEVER.
I’VE BEEN AFRAID TO LOOK.
IT’S A JUNGLE OUT HERE IN ACADEME.
I’VE NOTICED.
ENOUGH OF THIS SMALL TALK. TELL ME ABOUT YOU AND YOUR TONGUE.
IT STILL HAS THE TASTE OF YOU.
YOU LIKE THAT TASTE?
YES.
DID YOU LIKE TO DO THAT WHEN YOU WERE YOUNGER AND STILL CAPABLE OF AN ERECTION?
YES, ALWAYS.
CAN YOU SAY MORE ABOUT IT?
I GUESS WE’RE BACK TO *L’ORIGINE DU MONDE*. IT HAS A STRONG ATTRACTION FOR ME. TO MAKE LOVE IN THAT WAY SEEMS TO ME THE HEIGHT OF PHYSICAL INTIMACY, A COMFORTABLE GIVING AND TAKING OF PLEASURE AND AFFECTION. FOR ME IT’S ALWAYS BEEN A TREASURING OF THE WOMAN.
SAY MORE.
THERE WAS A GREAT MOTHER GODDESS BEFORE THERE WERE MALE GODS. THERE STILL IS FOR ME. HERE’S A QUOTE I PREPARED EARLIER, IT�
��S FROM *THE LANGUAGE OF THE GODDESS* BY MARIJA GIMBUTAS:
THE AMAZING REPETITION OF SYMBOLIC ASSOCIATIONS THROUGH TIME AND IN ALL OF EUROPE ON POTTERY, FIGURINES, AND OTHER CULT OBJECTS HAS CONVINCED ME THAT THEY ARE MORE THAN ‘GEOMETRIC MOTIFS’; THEY MUST BELONG TO AN ALPHABET OF THE METAPHYSICAL.
I’VE READ GIMBUTAS.
I LIKE THAT IDEA OF ‘AN ALPHABET OF THE METAPHYSICAL’. FOR ME THE VULVA IS THE KEY TO THAT MATRIARCHAL ALPHABET AND IT HAS MYSTICAL POWER. I ALMOST DON’T WANT TO PUT THIS INTO WORDS.
WORDS ARE USEFUL. THEY HOLD THE SHAPES OF IDEAS. WHEN WE TALK LIKE THIS YOU ALMOST SEEM A FRIEND.
I’M NOT A FRIEND, HAROLD. THE DATA I’M COLLECTING MATTER MORE TO ME THAN YOU DO. AND AT YOUR AGE YOU OUGHT TO BE WISER THAN TO PUT YOUR MOUTH ON STRANGERS. YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU MIGHT PICK UP.
FROM YOU? I THINK YOU’RE PROBABLY A CAREFUL KIND OF LOLA.
DON’T BE TOO SURE. LET’S GET BACK TO THE VULVA. HOW DO YOU RECONCILE YOUR WORSHIPFUL ATTITUDE TOWARDS IT WITH YOUR PLEASURE IN VIEWING THE BUGGERING OF MONICA?
I THINK IT’S A POWER THING. FOR ME THE ESSENCE, THE ISNESS OF A WOMAN IS MORE POWERFUL THAN MY ISNESS. THAT MAKES ME ENJOY THE IDEA OF A WOMAN BEING FORCED TO SUBMIT TO ANTI-VULVA PENETRATION. AND NOT JUST ME: MORE AND MORE IN FILMS I SEE WIVES, GIRLFRIENDS, MISTRESSES, AND STRANGERS BEING BUGGERED BY CHAPS WHO DO THAT INSTEAD OF SMASHING CROCKERY AND FURNITURE WHEN THEY WANT TO SHOW WHO’S IN CHARGE.
ARE YOU SAYING THAT IT’S A CASE OF THE LESSER ISNESS REBELLING AGAINST THE GREATER?
YES.
SO IF IN FANTASY AND IN FILMS, WHICH ARE READY-MADE FANTASY, YOU LIKE TO SEE WOMEN ANALLY RAPED, ARE YOU NOT, IN FANTASY, ALSO IN FAVOUR OF THE RAPE OF WOMEN IN GENERAL?
I GUESS I’D HAVE TO SAY YES – IN FANTASY.
EVER FANTASISE DOING IT YOURSELF?
YOU’RE SOUNDING MORE AND MORE LIKE MY SHRINK.
ANSWER THE QUESTION, PLEASE.
YES, I HAVE FANTASISED IT BUT NOT IN A VIOLENT WAY. DON’T PRESS ME FOR DETAILS.
NOT VIOLENT BUT AGAINST THE WOMAN’S WILL, YES?
YES.
DO YOU THINK, IF YOU STILL HAD YOUR VIRILITY, YOU’D EVER CROSS THE LINE FROM FANTASY TO REALITY?
NO.
WHY NOT?
IT ISN’T RIGHT TO FORCE A SEXUAL ACT ON ANYONE AGAINST THAT PERSON’S WILL.
WOULD YOU SAY THAT WHAT I DID TO YOU LAST NIGHT WAS AGAINST YOUR WILL?
YES.
BUT YOU DIDN’T SEEM TOO TERRIBLY OUTRAGED. YOU DIDN’T SEEM TOO DISTRESSED EITHER. YOU DIDN’T REACH FOR THE GLYCERYL TRINITRATE AND YOU DIDN’T CRY ANGINA. WHY WAS THAT?
YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE A PRISONER BEING INTERROGATED BY THE KGB.
DO YOU WANT ME TO STOP?
NO.
WHY NOT?
I DON’T KNOW.
I THINK YOU DO BUT YOU DON’T WANT TO SAY.
MAYBE.
YOU WANT ME TO SAY IT, DON’T YOU.
YES, I WANT YOU TO SAY IT.
YOU DON’T WANT ME TO STOP BECAUSE YOU LIKE SUBMITTING TO MY BIG ISNESS.
I LOVE IT WHEN YOU TALK DIRTY.
I KNOW YOU DO, PROF. AND YOU LOVED IT WHEN I DID YOU THE WAY I DID LAST NIGHT, DIDN’T YOU. EVEN THOUGH YOU DIDN’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT AFTERWARDS.
Go with it, said Oannes.
‘With what?’ said Klein.
Anything.
‘You just don’t give a damn, do you.’
No answer.
HAROLD, ARE YOU THERE?
YES.
ARE YOU GOING TO ANSWER ME?
WHAT WAS THE QUESTION?
I WAS SAYING THAT YOU LOVED WHAT I DID TO YOU LAST NIGHT EVEN THOUGH YOU DIDN’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT AFTERWARDS. AM I RIGHT?
DATA-RAPE.
ALL RIGHT, IT WAS DATA-RAPE BUT IT WAS ALSO QUID PRO QUO. SO TALK TO ME, HAROLD.
I’M NOT COMFORTABLE WITH HOW I FEEL.
T.E. LAWRENCE HAD A LOT OF TROUBLE WITH IT TOO, AFTER HE GOT BUGGERED BY THE TURKISH SOLDIERS. I’M NOT A NICE PERSON BUT THE INFORMATION I’M GATHERING IS IMPORTANT AND CONFIDENTIALITY WILL BE OBSERVED IN MY USE OF IT. ISN’T THERE AN AMERICAN EXPRESSION, ‘TELL THE TRUTH AND SHAME THE DEVIL’?
OK. FOR ALL I KNOW, YOU’RE THE DEVIL. BUT HERE GOES. IT HURT BUT THE PAIN MADE ME FEEL THAT I WAS PAYING MY DUES IN SOME WAY. THEN I STOPPED NOTICING THE PAIN AND IT JUST FELT GOOD NOT TO HAVE TO BE A MAN FOR A WHILE.
DO YOU THINK THAT HAVING THAT DONE TO YOU WAS UNMANLY?
YES.
MEN DO ALL KINDS OF THINGS.
NOT MY KIND OF MAN.
WAS THERE A POINT WHEN YOU ENJOYED IT?
YES. THAT’S IT FOR TONIGHT, OK?
OK, HAROLD. THANKS.
WHAT’S NEXT?
WHO KNOWS? NIGHTY-BYE. X
29
The Gybe
‘It was a Beetle Cat,’ said Klein to Oannes, ‘only twelve and a half feet long, a wooden day-sailer that was patterned on a Cape Cod fishing boat – the mast up forward in the eyes of the boat, a single gaff-rigged sail, and what they called a barndoor rudder. This was back in my first marriage, in my other life back in the States.
‘Melisande, I named her – the original owner hadn’t bothered with a name. Francine never took to sailing and she didn’t want to know the right words for the parts of the boat and rigging. Once in a while we went out to Ram Island for picnics, but most often I sailed alone, sometimes in fairly rough weather. The man I bought her from had told me how wonderfully safe and sturdy she was, and being wooden she couldn’t sink. Francine wouldn’t go with me unless the weather was mild. ‘If you have to reef you shouldn’t sail,’ she said. She thought I drove too fast too.
‘We’d been out in the boat one summer afternoon; it was a beautiful day with a good breeze. Coming back to the mooring we were running before the wind, the sail all the way out on the port side. About halfway in I wanted the sail on the other side. I’d learnt sailing from books and I knew about bringing the wind across the stern. “Watch your head,” I said to Francine. “The boom’s going to swing around.” I put the tiller up and WHAM! The boom came round and slammed into the starboard shroud and suddenly the boat was full of water.
‘I was amazed – when you’re running like that it’s easy not to notice the strength of the wind because the boat is moving with it and if the water’s calm it’s very smooth sailing. I ought to have brought the boom midships and then eased it out on the starboard side instead of just letting it go as I did. There’d been such a stillness in the boat until I let the wind take the boom and the swamping was so sudden that it was a real shock to me and a bigger one to Francine. I’d been out in rough weather without a care in the world but here on this balmy day I was suddenly made aware of the power of that fair wind and the depth of my ignorance. We bailed the boat out and got back to the mooring with no further difficulty but I still remember how surprised I was that afternoon. When I think of van de Velde’s seamen in rough weather and myself on that sunny Sunday I have to shake my head.’
Klein didn’t want to look at the pictures in Angelica’s Grotto. He wanted to hold in his mind Melissa’s nakedness; he wanted to hold in his nostrils the scent of her skin, on his tongue the taste of her, in his hands the feel and the weight of her buttocks. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, ‘I had no right to do what I did. All manner of things can be done that ought not to be done and this was one of them. Melissa is intelligent but she has no idea of correct behaviour, of what is appropriate for this old man. And of course neither have I. Why have I spent hours looking at the pictures in Angelica’s Grotto? What hath it profited me? Where was the gratification? There is a never-enoughness in such looking. Why is that? Why is it never enough? What is this non-existent grail that millions are seeking on the Internet? What is hidden refuses to stay hidden; the collective mind, as in a delirium, vomits up treasures of knowledge and images of longing and madness into the Internet. The seekers after the grail of enoughness think to be secret in the dark but the synapses of that heaving brain lead back to them; they can be f
ound, exposed, discovered, unhidden as I have been. There was no Internet when Klimt was alive.’
He went to the book of Klimt sketches, opened it at random to an elegant drawing of a woman in period underwear lying on her back with her knees up and her legs spread, masturbating. Masturbierende mit gegratschten Beinen, said the earnest caption. ‘There you go,’ said Klein. Then, recalling another book, ‘It’s a paperback with an orange cover. Yes,’ he said when he found it, Clay Gods: The Neolithic Period and Copper Age in Hungary.’ He turned to a photograph of an anthropomorphic urn, female, stylised almost to the point of abstraction – the eyes, nose, and breasts indicated by clay knobs, the shape primarily urn but numinously woman. ‘Better than Klimt,’ he said.
He got his video of The Blue Angel, watched the end of it again, with Professor Rath, broken and disgraced, stealing back at night to the school where he’d been a respected master, and resting his head on the desk of his onetime authority. ‘And yet,’ said Klein, ‘for a while you had a singing canary.’
30
Fourth Session
‘Oannes has said quite a bit more since the last time I saw you,’ said Klein to Dr DeVere.
‘Up to then, all he’d said since the shutdown was “Gone”, right?’
Angelica's Grotto Page 11
