‘Will you tell me, at least, why you chose the Ingres painting of Ruggiero and Angelica for your website?’
‘Yes, I will. For centuries, Harold, women have been chained to the rock of male fantasies, so I thought I might as well use naked Angelica to attract the types I wanted to study.’
‘Emotionally dysfunctional types like me.’
‘Right. So far I’ve compiled data on the eighty-one men who’ve been answering my questions as you did. Their fear of women and their feelings of inferiority are shown in how they react to the website material and what they say when we talk one to one – all of them feel less than equal to the female.’
‘Do you think men ever will feel equal to women?’
‘Obviously they can’t feel equal until they are equal, and whether or not that’ll ever happen I can’t say. But before any change can happen there has to be recognition of the present situation, and that’s the object of this study.’
‘I’m afraid I’m too old to change, Melissa.’
‘Nobody’s asking you to. I’m not exactly a role model either and I’m too perverse to change, so I guess the two of us will have to carry on being less than perfect.’
‘Is it possible that perversity is natural, that everything generates its own variations?’
‘That’s something else I’d like to look into but it’ll have to wait until I finish this project.’
‘While we talk there’s nobody minding the store.’
‘At this time of day we just let the website run itself. Later we’ll do one-to-ones and take phone calls.’
‘Where’s Leslie now?’
‘He’s working in a porno flick and won’t be back till this evening.’
‘Don’t you worry about AIDS?’
‘We both get tested regularly and we always take precautions.’
‘I can understand the appeal of rough trade, but he’s so, so …’
‘He’s so what, Prof? So black? So well-hung? So good at giving me satisfaction?’
‘Is he producing or performing in this porno flick?’
‘Performing, and he’s a very reliable performer, believe me – much in demand.’
‘The people who make these films, do you associate with them at all?’
‘It’s a company called Labyrinth. They put me on to Lydia. She’s the female lead in ‘Monica’s Monday Night’. She also appears under different wigs in the other picture stories. She’s very good but she’s not cheap.’
‘Who’s Angelica?’
‘That’s Shannon. I got her from Labyrinth too.’
‘She looks like a Waterhouse nymph.’
‘Who’s Waterhouse?’
‘A Victorian painter. You must have seen reproductions of Hylas and the Nymphs or The Lady of Shalott here and there?’
‘I don’t recall but the Tennyson poem is certainly a load of crap. If she wanted Lancelot she could have found better ways of getting his attention than dying. That poem is a kind of snuff movie but it’s respectable because they never actually get down to business. Typical wanker chauvinist piggery. And I doubt that Waterhouse’s nymphs ever got up to or down to what Shannon does in a day’s work.’
‘At Labyrinth, are there any women called Kimberly or Tiffany?’
‘Several. Do you want their phone numbers?’
‘Not yet.’ Klein’s mind, like a tongue going into a cavity, kept giving him pictures of Melissa and Leslie doing what the Lady of Shalott and Lancelot didn’t. ‘You said that Leslie was an employee. Does his pay cover sexual services?’
‘Yes, it does. With men I take nothing that I don’t pay for.’
‘What about Lydia? Do you pay her for sex?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Some things I’ll explain, Harold – others not.’
‘And you’re paying me with sex in advance for what you expect to get from me.’
‘I’ve told you: you’ve got the quids and I’ve got the quos. We also have something more but don’t try to define it and don’t try to romanticise it, OK?’
‘OK, Melissa, I promise not to. If you’ll drive me to Oval Underground Station I can make my way home from there.’
‘Leaving in a huff, are we?’
‘In a train, if you’ll drop me off at the station.’
‘So where are we, Prof?’
‘In Rubicon Grove, Lola. I’ll let you know when I’ve made the crossing.’
Nobody said anything in the van on the way to the station. Melissa took Klein’s hand and put it on her thigh and he let it stay there while he spoke to himself in silence.
47
Deeply Moving
‘“The sense of danger must not disappear: …”’ said Klein to Melissa on the telephone.
‘“The way is certainly both short and steep,”’ she replied, ‘“However gradual it looks from here; …”’
‘“Look if you like, …”’
‘“But you will have to leap.” Are you leaping?’
‘It seems that way. When can you and Leslie move in?’
‘Are you sure you want us to?’
‘Yes, I’m sure, Melissa.’
‘It’s a strange situation.’
‘That’s what life is, isn’t it?’
‘I mean, I know I’m taking advantage of you but at the same time I know that you want me to.’
‘That’s exactly right – I have no illusions about you and me and this is how I want it.’
‘Well, we can do it tomorrow evening if that’s a good time for you. We’ve only got the website gear and some clothes – no furniture except the tables and file cabinets.’
‘Fine, come ahead whenever you’re ready.’
‘You’ve got two phone lines, right?’
‘Right.’
‘We’ll need four more. I think it usually takes about a week before they can install them.’
‘I’ll order them now.’
‘Thanks. I’m really looking forward to this move, Harold.’
‘So am I, Melissa. Being an old fool is the most fun I’ve had in a long time.’
‘If you’re having fun maybe you’re not such a fool. See you tomorrow. Kiss, kiss, kiss.’
He kissed her back. ‘See you tomorrow.’
That Melissa had been able to quote the Auden poem with him pleased Klein greatly, made him feel that whatever was between them was growing and continually opening up new territory. After he rang off he paced the house restlessly, considering the working and sleeping arrangements. The front bedroom where he and Hannelore had slept would be for Melissa and … ? Him? Or Leslie? A hot wave of irritation flooded over him; he resented having to consider Leslie, resented the idea of yielding place to him. On the other hand, the thought of claiming a regular place in Melissa’s bed in payment for a roof over her head embarrassed him; also the thought of his old body beside her young one every night made him squirm. No, the front bedroom would be for Melissa and Leslie. He would take the back bedroom and the website equipment could be set up in the guest room.
The house now wore a look of surprise and expectancy; encountering him in odd places scratching his head and muttering to himself, it found his presence changed. Standing before the Meissen girl, Klein was argumentative. ‘Why,’ he said, ‘is there such a contradiction in you? You’re a porcelain oxymoron: you’ve got a body that’s made for sin and a face like the Virgin Mary and you’ve never looked at me once in all these years – you’ve always got your eye on those invisible balls on that invisible pitch that’s behind me when I stand in front of you. What’s your message? Are you trying to tell me that the game is elsewhere, that I’m missing the point?’
Her eyes entranced and dreamy as always, she looked past Klein at the unseen world behind him.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Maybe I’m mad. It’s the natural state.’
Just don’t get too natural, said Oannes.
What can happen that’s bad?
You never know.<
br />
That night Klein dreamt that Hannelore was walking towards him in the Fulham Road, the sunlight behind her shining through her hair. They both stopped and she looked at him sadly. ‘You left me,’ he said. ‘I didn’t leave you.’
Early the next evening he was watching at the front window when the van appeared with Leslie driving. Klein went out to meet them. ‘Here we are,’ said Melissa. ‘Hi,’ said Leslie.
‘Hi,’ said Klein.
There was no parking space in front of the house so Leslie and Melissa unloaded the van in the street and put everything on the pavement. Melissa kissed Klein. ‘Well, Harold,’ she said, ‘this is it.’
‘Yes, it is. I’m not strong enough to carry you over the threshold and of course it’s not really that kind of thing.’
‘Just as well, since there are two of us and Leslie’s a lot heavier than I am.’
While Leslie drove off to find a space Melissa and Klein carried things up the steps and into the house. ‘Don’t take anything heavy, Harold,’ she said.
‘I won’t. The computers go in the room all the way at the back.’
This one too, said Oannes when Leslie reappeared.
That’s how it is, said Klein. The work was soon done. He looked away when Leslie took his things into the front bedroom. ‘Shall we order a pizza?’ he said. ‘I thought we’d do the shopping tomorrow.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Melissa. ‘Cheese and tomato pepperoni, mushrooms, green peppers, onions, and anchovies?’
‘Whatever does it for you.’
‘Got any beer?’ said Leslie.
‘There’s an Oddbins just up the road,’ said Klein. ‘Why don’t you get a couple of six-packs while I order the pizza?’ He gave him a twenty-pound note.
Leslie’s eyes met his for rather a long time as he took the money. ‘Any particular kind?’
‘I mostly drink wine, so get whatever you like.’
‘What beer do you drink when you do drink beer, Prof?’
‘Beck’s, and I’d rather you didn’t call me Prof, Leslie.’
‘Sorry! Should I call you Mr Klein?’
‘Harold will do nicely, OK?’
‘OK, nicely is how I want to do it, Harold.’ He moved away pantherishly, the primal waves of his maleness continuing their transmission after he was out of sight. Receiving the message, Klein shrank into non-existence, reached into it, hauled himself out by the scruff of the neck, and shook his head.
He could be trouble, said Oannes.
Tell me about it, said Klein.
‘Leslie’s a lot of fun when you get to know him,’ said Melissa.
‘I’ll bet he is. I can see already that he’s got a great sense of humour.’
Melissa was standing by the wall where Pegase Noir used to hang. She touched the blank space it had left behind. ‘That winged horse flew away with some of the past, Harold. Now there’s more space for the present, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I suppose so.’ He wished she would move away from the mantelpiece and the Meissen girl. She was running her finger over the nipple of the figure’s exposed right breast, exactly as she had done the first time she was in this room. Maybe this is a dream, he thought. Maybe I’ll wake up and she won’t be here and I’ve never met her.
‘We’ve got the makings of a very pleasant arrangement here, Harold.’ She smiled suggestively. ‘Don’t spoil it for yourself.’
‘God forbid.’ He put Egberto Gismonti’s Sol Do Meio Dia on the CD player and the guitar filled the room with Amazonian jungle shadows. ‘That’s a nice sound,’ said Melissa. She shook her hips and rolled her shoulders to the music while he stood there danceless.
The pizza arrived, Leslie and the beer shortly after. They ate at the kitchen table. Klein opened a bottle of red which he and Melissa shared. Leslie drank Special Brew from the can. ‘They were out of Beck’s,’ he said.
‘Could I have the change?’ said Klein.
Leslie gave it to him. There was a beaded lamp over the kitchen table; Klein had always found its light cosy but now it seemed to fix the strangeness of this gathering like a surveillance photograph. He imagined the police examining it and asking questions. Really, he said to himself, what have I to feel guilty about?
Don’t ask me, said Oannes.
While they ate and drank, Gismonti continued in the living-room and the bedroom waited upstairs for what would come later. Klein tried to stop the pictures in his mind but couldn’t. ‘What’s the domestic routine going to be?’ he said to Melissa. ‘Will you be cooking?’
‘Hello, hello, are you there, Harold? This is 1998; unisex cooking has been going on for quite a while. What did you do until now?’
Over the years Klein had become a reasonably good cook, even essaying such advanced dishes as beef Stroganoff and goulash. He rebelled, however, at becoming the housewife of the group. ‘I mostly bought frozen dinners at Safeway or I ordered in various kinds of takeaway,’ he said. ‘What did you do until now?’
‘Sometimes we ate out; sometimes Leslie cooked.’
‘Leslie, you’re a real all-rounder,’ said Klein.
‘Some of us have to be. If I’m going to do the cooking here you and Melissa can do the shopping – I’ll write out a list for you tonight.’ To Melissa he said, ‘We still have to get everything hooked up.’
While Leslie and Melissa organised the website room Klein went to his desk and put the last unfinished Klimt page up on his computer screen. Then he made it go away and put up a blank new page. He sat with his arms folded across his chest, looking at the wordless screen. He remembered an old Jimmy Durante song and typed:
Sometimes I think I wanna go,
And then again I think I wanna stay.
He needed music but wasn’t sure what kind. He put on Piazzolla Classics. The first track was ‘Three Minutes with the Truth’ which always sounded to him like something struggling to move forward while being pulled back. The second track was ‘The Little House of My Ancestors’ which made him see it on a hillside under a flat blue cloudless sky, children playing in the dusty road. He listened through the disc, going where the music took him while staring at the words of Jimmy Durante on the computer screen.
‘Beddy byes,’ said Melissa, and kissed him. To his questioning look she said, ‘Soon,’ and went upstairs, followed by Leslie who said, over his shoulder, ‘Sleep well, Harold.’
‘No doubt in his mind about where he sleeps,’ Klein muttered to himself. He went to the window, looked out at the street where the parked cars were frosting up under the unblinking stare of the pinky-yellow lamps. The winter night, sensing his attention, came up to the window, pressed its bleakness against the glass, mouthed You and me, sweetheart.
You’re a pathetic fallacy, said Klein, and turned away. He went through his video collection, chose The Passenger, fast forwarded to the scene near the end when Jack Nicholson, having stolen another man’s name, his passport, and possibly his destiny, lies on a bed in the Hotel de La Gloria on the Spanish border. In the stillness of late afternoon the camera, like his departing spirit, moves slowly out through the window and the grille to look across a dusty space towards the Plaza de Toros where there is nothing happening today except a trumpeter sending a solitary paso doble into the ambient silence. Little distant figures by its wall speak in diminished voices. The faint passing wail of a far-off train is heard, then the labouring engine of the little Auto Escuela Andalucía car. Maria Schneider, the unnamed Girl, appears walking slowly towards the bullring. The car of the driving-school comes and goes; a small boy runs across the window’s view, throws a stone, is shouted at by the little distant figures. A white Citrën drives up; two men in light suits get out. There are church bells, car doors slamming, the roar of a motorcycle starting up and fading into quietness. People come and go in the dusty space, some of them look up at the window, some don’t. A siren announces the arrival of a black-and-white police car; the policemen order the driving-school car to leave. Somewhere a dog barks. Other uni
formed men arrive in a patrol car, perhaps they are border guards. With them is the wife of the man on the bed. He is dead now.
‘Did you recognise him?’ the wife is asked.
‘I never knew him,’ she says. The man on the bed is left behind as his story moves on without him.
The last shot in the film is outside the hotel at that time of media luz, all delicate pink and violet, when the sky is still luminous but the lamps are lit, first outside the hotel, then inside. The little Auto Escuela Andalucía car drives off under the music of a thoughtful guitar playing something uncredited that Klein had heard elsewhere: Julian Bream? He put on La Guitarra Romantica, searched patiently until he found it on Track 15, ‘Canco del lladre’, ‘The Thief’s Song’.
‘“The Thief’s Song”,’ said Klein. ‘He stole the identity of another man. This one that I have now, where did it come from? And the learner in the driving-school car, did he or she ever pass the driving test?’ Then he realised that he was speaking aloud. He sighed and went upstairs.
Lying wakeful in the back bedroom he listened for sounds on the other side of the wall. There was some murmuring and he opened his door to hear better. The door of the front bedroom, he noticed, was now slightly ajar. There was laughter, more murmuring, then he heard Melissa say, ‘No, Leslie, no power games tonight!’ Leslie laughed, there were sounds of a scuffle, Melissa cried out twice, then there was only the creaking of the bed. Klein closed his door. Welcome to the ménage à trois, said Oannes.
What am I going to do? said Klein.
We’ll think of something.
48
Loomings
Klein was accustomed to the looming of buildings and buses and he could handle it up to a point; he was troubled, however, by what seemed to him the unknown messages encoded in the 14 buses, the old Routemasters like the one that towered over him now as he headed for Safeway with a rucksack slung from one shoulder and a shopping list in his pocket. The 14s were definitely redder some days than others. ‘“The poor dead woman whom he loved,/ And murdered in her bed,”’ he muttered.
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