Angelica's Grotto

  You didn’t murder Hannelore, said Oannes. She topped herself.

  Blood and wine and buses are red, said Klein as the 14 puttered past him. Love me, whispered its diesel pheromones.

  Everyone except one old lady on two sticks was walking faster than Klein. The morning was hot, the Fulham Road was full of traffic, the little green men on the crossing lights grudgingly allowed pedestrians a tenth of a second to get from one side to the other while the cars crouched, ready to spring. The sun was bearing down on the pollution to keep it within easy reach of anyone who happened to be breathing in; an examiner of early entrails would have found little to say for today. Another 14 bus appeared, possibly a male responding to the one ahead.

  OK, said Oannes, let’s get into this 14 bus thing, shall we?

  I don’t like the way they loom, said Klein.

  Naturally – that’s your guilt looming. Everybody’s guilt looms or climbs on their shoulders or crawls up their asses or whatever. The looming is normal so don’t let it bother you.

  There’s more to it and I don’t know what it is.

  We’ll get to that. First let’s look at what we’ve got here.

  A big red in-your-face 14 bus.

  A doubledecker, right?

  Right.

  What’s the essence of a doubledecker bus?

  They have an upstairs and a downstairs.

  Like your mind.

  OK.

  So if you don’t like it downstairs, go up on top.

  Congratulations – you’ve just cut the Freudian knot.

  Sometimes it needs cutting. These Routemasters – they’re open in the back, right? Why are they open?

  So you can jump on and off.

  Nice one, Harold. You jumped on – now what?

  You think I should jump off?

  You tell me.

  I’m of two minds on that.

  So when the time comes you’ll get rid of one of them.

  One of the minds?

  Whatever.

  You said you were going to tell me about the more.

  The thing about more is that it comes after what comes before it. When it’s ready it’ll make itself known.

  You’re such a comfort to me, Oannes.

  After all, we’re in this together for the time being.

  What do you mean, ‘for the time being’?

  Well, nothing’s for ever, is it.

  Right, then while we’re still together let’s get on with the shopping.

  I thought Melissa was going to help with that.

  She had to be at King’s all day today. And Leslie’s out doing his thing.

  Oh yes, Leslie’s thing.

  It looms.

  Nothing’s for ever, Prof.

  When Klein reached the zebra crossingjust afters the little roundabout at the North End Road he looked neither to the right nor left but stepped off the kerb ignoring the squeal of brakes and walked without hurrying to the other side.

  You got the action, you got the motion, said Oannes.

  There was a nondescript brown dog parked outside Safeway. I could do shopping, it said with its eyes.

  ‘Cleverness is not enough,’ said Klein as the doors opened automatically, ‘you need money.’ He read his list: 1 cabbage; 3 carrots; 1lb onions; mayo; yoghurt; bunch parsley; codfish cakes.

  You’re not just a pretty face, said Oannes. You can shop too.

  I’m a regular Renaissance man, said Klein. Despite the mental irritant of Leslie, he found that he was feeling good. Beautiful young women were sometimes to be seen in the shadowless fluorescent daylight, pacing indolently among the apples, pears, oranges, bananas, strawberries and pomegranates. These fruits had in the past lost their excitement when he got them home. The illuminated bottles of golden juice, heavy with sunlight from Jaffa and Florida and the gardens of the Hesperides, had become simply the ghosts of citrus past in his fridge; potatoes had been mute lumps of carbohydrate. Now, even with the front-bedroom situation, there were good things to look forward to; the potatoes were solid with the promise of earthly delights and the pomegranates would still be musky with the scent of passing Persephones.

  Moving from aisle to aisle, Klein filled his basket. Everything began to seem significant now, and the signs above the aisles became a mantra as he scanned them: COOKED MEAT, BACON & SAUSAGES, FRESH CHICKEN, FRESH MEAT, CANNED VEGETABLES, SOUPS, RICE & PASTA, COOKING SAUCES, BUNS & TEA CAKES, BREAD & CAKES, PICKLES & SAUCES, COOKING OILS, TEA & COFFEE, CANNED FISH & MEAT, BABY FOODS, MEDICINES, SHAMPOOS, TOILET SOAPS, SOAP POWDER & BLEACH, DOG FOOD, CAT FOOD, TOILET TISSUES, KITCHEN TOWELS, FROZEN CHICKEN, FROZEN MEAT, FROZEN VEGETABLES, FROZEN READY MEALS, FROZEN FISH, ICE-CREAM, RED WINES, WHITE WINES, BEER & LAGER, SPIRITS & LIQUEURS, BISCUITS, JAM & MARMALADE, SWEETS & CHOCOLATE, HOME BAKING, CRISPS, SNACKS, NUTS, SOFT DRINKS AND MINERAL WATER, MEMENTO MORI & LAST JUDGEMENT, GATHER YE ROSEBUDS WHILE YE MAY, OLD TIME IS STILL A-FLYING.

  ‘Rosebud,’ said Klein as the flames licked round him. He was standing in front of a display of autistic ties that gabbled in crazy colours and he thought of buying one for Leslie. He moved on to a phalanx of batteries, found it difficult not to buy some just for the power of it. When he left Safeway the dog was still there.

  Gissa job, it said with its eyes.

  ‘Fully staffed,’ said Klein.

  ‘Big Issue!’ growled a bearded vendor.

  ‘There are no small ones,’ said Klein. Bearing his frozen codfish cakes and the other supper ingredients, he continued along the North End Road for no valid reason past the Parish Church of St John with St James, Walham Green, offering its crucified wooden Christ and COFFEE HERE, past the green and leafy churchyard and four jovial drunks on a bench towards the Cock that swung its sign above the eponymous pub and further flaunted its virility with a rampant golden chanticleer in three dimensions on the roof.

  There’s always Viagra, said Oannes.

  ‘I need Viagra like a barnacle needs a treadmill,’ said Klein, not realising that he’d spoken aloud until three passing schoolgirl smokers turned to look at him. ‘As if!’ said one. ‘What did he mean?’ said another, and the third brayed with all-purpose laughter.

  Outside the public toilets a tumescent red motorcycle was parked. ‘They really know how to hurt a guy,’ said Klein, and headed for home.

  49

  Nimfb

  Klein had written his own shopping list of salad ingredients, and at the appropriate time, feeling housewifely but trusting no one else to get it right, he made the salad and waited for the others to come home. The kitchen was in the basement, and as he sliced tomatoes and cucumbers he looked up at the legs and bodies – his view went no further – of the passersby on the other side of the area railings. The purposeful footsteps of the rest of the world made him wonder whether the place he had arrived at was as good as the ones they were hastening to.

  Melissa was the first to arrive. ‘Honey, I’m home,’ she said, and gave him a deep kiss.

  Klein disengaged his tongue and wiped his mouth. ‘Did you have a good day?’

  ‘Nothing special. What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘Matter? What could be the matter?’

  ‘That’s what I’m asking. Did you have a bad day?’

  ‘Nothing special. I had a bad night, though, and so did you by the sound of it. Did Leslie demand his non-conjugal rights in a way you didn’t care for?’

  ‘The walls are really thin in this house, aren’t they.’

  ‘Especially when the bedroom doors are open.’

  ‘What is it with men, anyhow, that they have to let off steam by buggering the nearest woman?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know – it’s been so long since I had any steam to let off. You must be used to it, though, with Leslie.’

  ‘Sometimes I don’t mind but last night I wasn’t in the mood.’

  ‘Neither was I.’

  ‘Harold –’ she put her hand on his arm, ‘I know you were looking forward to joining in and I’m
sorry it didn’t work out that way but we’ve only just moved in and …’ She wound herself around him and nuzzled his cheek, ‘We’ve got lots of great nights ahead of us. Leslie has this heavy macho thing but I can settle him down and we’ll have a really good time together – you’ll see.’

  ‘I think not, Melissa.’

  She unwound with the speed of a striking rattlesnake. ‘What do you mean, Prof?’

  ‘I mean, you can stay but Leslie’s got to go. I didn’t mind it so much when he was doing you in Camberwell but I’ll be goddamned if I want him doing you in my front bedroom.’

  ‘But I thought, you know, you wanted a ménage à trois.’

  ‘So did I but the fact is that I just don’t like Leslie. Maybe we could ménage better if we found a woman to be the third in this house. I imagine I could find one without too much trouble – you’re not the only one that can be bought.’

  Go for it, Champ, said Oannes.

  Melissa’s eyes were frightening. ‘Jesus, Harold, you’re turning out to be a right bastard.’

  ‘I never promised you unlimited old foolery.’

  ‘The hell you didn’t! You said you were going to take care of me financially and you strung me along so Leslie and I would move in with you, and now that we’ve given up the Camberwell flat you suddenly cop out on me. That’s really shitty, Prof. If dumping Leslie was part of the deal you should have said so before this.’

  ‘I honestly didn’t know his presence was going to affect me the way it does. And it’s deliberate on his part – he knows he’s the alpha male around here and he rubs my nose in it with the way he talks to me and the looks he gives me and his body language. I might be old but I realise now that I’m just as territorial as he is and you happen to be the territory. I’m sorry but that’s just how it is.’ What a lot of testosterone there is in my cerebral cortex, he thought.

  Melissa’s face became something pale and grim that was all angles and no curves. ‘Look at you, you useless old fart -I could easily finish you off with my bare hands and you’re feeling territorial about me? That’s really a laugh.’

  ‘So laugh, but get rid of Leslie or the deal’s off.’

  ‘But I need Leslie – he’s so good with computers and he knows the drill for the project. How am I going to break in somebody new at this stage?’

  ‘Easily, I should think. There must be a million Leslies out there ready to step into the breach as soon as you drop your knickers. But not in my front bedroom.’

  ‘You want to play hardball? How about if I let the tabloids know about the secret life of a respected art historian?’

  ‘Go ahead, sweetheart. Not only will it give my books a new lease of life but I can sell my side of the story for a lot more money than I usually get in advances.’

  ‘Good God, he’s greedy as well.’

  ‘This doesn’t have to be a long drawn-out discussion, Lola. I’ve grown accustomed to your base but if you’re determined to carry on with Leslie you’ll have to do it without my financial help and in some other venue.’

  He could see her thinking through various scenarios and discarding them until she had none. The deadliness went out of her eyes and she leant her head on his shoulder like a tired child. The lamp over the kitchen table backlit her hair and one side of her face and she was adorable in her defeat.

  ‘I don’t believe this is happening,’ she said softly. ‘I thought we were good friends and fond of each other.’

  ‘I am fond of you, Melissa, but now that I’ve loosened up a bit I think I could become fond of someone else rather easily. Leslie’s going to be here soon, I expect. Do you want to break it to him or shall I?’

  ‘Don’t do anything right away, Harold – give me a little time to think.’

  ‘Certainly, but it’s got to be tonight. While you’re thinking we can have a drink. What’s your pleasure?’

  ‘Whisky.’

  He poured a large Glenfiddich for both of them and raised his glass to her. ‘Happy days, Melissa.’

  ‘Whatever you say, Prof.’ She closed her eyes and retired into a reverie while the frost did its nightly sparkle on the parked cars under the pinky-yellow lamps. Both glasses became empty quickly and Klein refilled them.

  After a while Leslie’s feet were heard on the outside stairs and he came in by the basement door. ‘Honey, I’m home,’ he said, and unslung his sports bag from his shoulder.

  ‘We’ve done that one,’ said Melissa.

  ‘But not this one,’ said Leslie. He put his hand between her legs and kissed her wetly.

  Are you just going to keep taking this shit? said Oannes.

  I’m thinking about it, said Klein. To Leslie, ‘How was your day at the office?’

  ‘Hard, which is how they want it,’ said Leslie. ‘And how was yours? Did you write lots of exciting words?’

  ‘Not really.’

  Well? said Oannes. Cowardice is OK but this is your turf.

  ‘Good-looking salad,’ said Leslie. ‘You do that all by yourself, Prof?’

  ‘Don’t call me Prof.’

  ‘Oh yes, I forgot. I’ll try not to let it happen again.’ He poured a Glenfiddich for himself and raised his glass to Klein. ‘Here’s to the world of the arts,’ he said. He downed the whisky, poured another, set the glass on the drainingboard, opened the fridge, took out the vegetables, got a large knife and a bowl, and began to make coleslaw. ‘We wrapped up Dickerydoo today,’ he said to Melissa, ‘so I’ll be able to give you more time.’

  ‘Right,’ she said to his back. Looking at Klein, she shrugged.

  Leslie was graceful and efficient. As he laid out what he needed without apparent thought he made a tidy little still life, then he peeled off the outer leaves of the cabbage, quartered it with professional speed, picked up the slicer, and sliced the cabbage into a bowl. He cleaned and grated the carrots, peeled a large onion and chopped it up fine, peeled and chopped an apple in, added some chopped parsley, black pepper, a pinch of salt, a dash of vinegar, then stirred in yoghurt and mayonnaise and a pinch of sugar. Everything he did was pleasing to the eye; his touch was deft and sensitive and his hands performed as stylishly as those of a TV chef. Melissa noticed Klein watching him. ‘He’s good at what he does,’ she said.

  ‘You know it,’ said Leslie.

  While Leslie was occupied with the coleslaw Melissa caught Klein’s eye and looked towards the stairs. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I’m going up to the word machine. Give me a shout when it’s eating time.’

  ‘You got it, Mr Harold, sir,’ said Leslie.

  Once at his desk, Klein put up on the screen the page he called NEXT, and sat looking at Jimmy Durante’s words:

  Sometimes I think I wanna go,

  And then again I think I wanna stay.

  ‘No Klimt today,’ he said. ‘The Klimt is off. We can recommend … What?’ He’d always tried to have a new project in mind to follow whatever he was working on – something to look forward to, but now he could think of nothing but Melissa and the conversation she was having with Leslie at this moment. He heard no raised voices from the kitchen but he wanted to make a little space around himself with music, so he put on the Charlie Byrd Trio with Ken Peplowski, The Bossa Nova Years. The songs of Antonio Carlos Jobim, instead of being soothing, seemed to be getting between him and something he wanted to look at. Or was it something that wanted to look at him? The Knochenmann with the red sceptre, was it, offering the next project?

  He went to the window, looked at the frost-sparkling cars, thought of the seasons revolving inexorably while metal rusted and flesh decayed, thought of the trees across the common, now bare, how in the summer dawns they swayed their leafy tops in the early breeze, indifferent to humans who slept and woke and slept again.

  From the trees on the common his mind went to the olive tree on Paxos, the olive tree he had drawn when Mrs Lichtheim tested him. He saw the flash of silver as the summer wind stirred its leaves; he stood under it in the green-lit shade of the olive grove a
nd looked at the ancient wrinkled trunk that was not dead and the dark opening out of which the naked Persephone had stepped, her body pale as moonlight, her face shadowed by her hair.

  He was holding the Paxos stone, round and heavy, in his right hand, feeling in it the lapping of the sea on the pebbled strand, the flat blue of the sky, the Ionian sunlight. He read the Greek words he’d written on it, KINESIS/ ANAPAUSIS: MOTION/REST, and tried to recall the balance of the moment when he had written them, tried to hear Hannelore’s voice, tried to feel her body under his hand, felt instead the warm and pitted stone. What was his motion, where was his rest?

  Leslie was standing in front of the desk with his back to the Meissen girl and the wall where Pegase Noir had hung. He had his drink in his hand and a reckless smile on his face.

  ‘What?’ said Klein.

  ‘You the cool one, ain’t you, Prof,’ said Leslie. ‘You the man with the plan – get us both moved in here and then throw my black ass out in the street and gobble that Melissa pussy night and day. Oh yes, you the man.’

  Klein was looking at Leslie but he saw beyond him, on the blank wall, Lucifer rising out of the inkblot, transcendent, pale green and high above him. ‘I didn’t have a plan,’ he said, ‘but I want you out.’

  ‘You want, Prof? Lemme tell you something, old numb-nuts …’ He reached behind him to put his drink on the mantelpiece and knocked over the Meissen girl. The porcelain figure fell to the hearth and shattered, and in that same moment the Paxos stone appeared in the middle of Leslie’s forehead with blood streaming from it.

  Leslie disappeared from view. ‘O God!’ said Klein. ‘What have I done?’ He stood up, peered over the edge of the desk, and saw Leslie lying on the floor, his face and chest covered with blood. He looked down at his right hand that had held the stone and saw that it was empty. He was breathless, the usual leadenness was travelling down his left arm and he felt as if a heavy fist had punched him in the heart. He reached for the glyceryl trinitrate, squirted it under his tongue, and waited for things to settle down.