Mood Indigo

  ‘Especially when we haven’t any work to give him …’ said the managing director.

  ‘It’s absolutely illogical,’ said Colin, stunned by their bureaucratic booming.

  ‘Why is it illogical, eh?’ asked the chairman.

  ‘Because,’ said Colin, ‘the last thing you should give an idler to do is work!’

  ‘So that’s it,’ said the managing director, ‘so you want to take over the chairmanship?’

  The chairman split his sides laughing at this suggestion.

  ‘He’s wonderful …!’ he said.

  His face clouded over and he pushed his armchair still farther back.

  ‘Take him away …’ he said to the managing director. ‘It’s clear to me now why he came. Go on, quickly! … Buzz off, slacker!’ he screamed.

  The managing director made a dive for Colin who had smartly grabbed the forgotten file from the table.

  ‘If you lay a hand on me …’ he threatened.

  He backed slowly to the door.

  ‘Clear off!’ screeched the chairman. ‘Spawndrift of Satan! …’

  ‘And you’re a silly old bugger,’ said Colin, and he turned the handle of the door.

  He flung the file at the desk and dashed into the corridor. When he reached the front door the commissionaire fired his cannon at him and the paper bullets made holes in the shape of a skull and crossbones in the upper panel of the door as it swung back.

  45

  ‘I can tell that it’s a very fine article,’ said the junctiquitarian, as he walked round Colin’s clavicocktail.

  ‘It’s made from genuine crow’s-foot maple,’ said Colin.

  ‘So I see,’ said the junctiquitarian. ‘I suppose it works all right?’

  ‘I’m only selling my very best things,’ said Colin.

  ‘It must upset you,’ said the junctiquitarian, leaning over to examine a little pattern in the grain of the wood.

  He blew away a few specks of dust which were spoiling the polish on the piece of furniture.

  ‘Wouldn’t you prefer to go out to work for your money and hang on to this? …’

  Colin remembered the chairman’s office and the parting shot and he said ‘No.’

  ‘You’ll come to it in the end,’ said the junctiquitarian, ‘when you’ve got nothing left to sell …’

  ‘If my expenses stop rising …’ said Colin. And he went on … ‘if my expenses stop growing, then, by selling my things, I should have enough to live on without working. Not live very well, but live all the same.’

  ‘Don’t you like work?’ asked the junctiquitarian.

  ‘It’s horrible,’ said Colin. ‘It takes a man down to the level of a machine.’

  ‘And your expenses are always going up?’ asked the junctiquitarian.

  ‘Flowers are so expensive,’ said Colin, ‘and so are prices in the mountains too …’

  ‘But if she gets better …’ said the junctiquitarian.

  ‘Ah!’ said Colin.

  He beamed.

  ‘That would be so marvellous! …’ he murmured.

  ‘And it’s not entirely impossible, is it?’ said the junctiquitarian.

  ‘No! Of course not! …’ said Colin.

  ‘But it will take time,’ said the junctiquitarian.

  ‘Yes,’ said Colin. ‘And the sun is going …’

  ‘It will come back,’ said the junctiquitarian, encouragingly.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Colin. ‘It’s moving farther away …’

  They were quiet for a few moments.

  ‘Is it loaded?’ asked the junctiquitarian, pointing to the clavicocktail.

  ‘Yes,’ said Colin. ‘There’s tiger’s milk in all its tanks!’

  ‘I’m quite handy on the keyboard. Could we try it out?’

  ‘If you like,’ said Colin.

  ‘I’ll go and get a chair.’

  They were standing in the middle of the shop where Colin had had his clavicocktail taken. All around them there were piles of strange old objects shaped like armchairs, leg-chairs, consoles and heels and other pieces of furniture. It was rather dark and there was a smell of curried polish and blue woodworm. The junctiquitarian took down a horsehair stool with saddle and reins and sat down in front of the clavicocktail. He had put up the Closed sign on the door which, being a slave to the truth, had swung shut and ensured that they would not be disturbed.

  ‘Do you know any Duke Ellington? …’ said Colin.

  ‘Yes,’ said the junctiquitarian. ‘I’ll play “Blues of the Vagabond”.’

  ‘How much shall I set it for?’ said Colin. ‘Three choruses?’

  ‘OK,’ said the junctiquitarian.

  ‘Fine,’ said Colin. ‘That will make gallons. Ready?’

  ‘Perfect,’ replied the shopkeeper, and he began to play.

  He had a very sensitive touch and the notes flew up, as airborne as the pearls cast from Barney Bigard’s clarinet in Duke’s version of the tune.

  Colin had sat on the floor to listen, with his back against the clavicocktail, and soft paisley-shaped tears slowly came from his eyes, ran down his jacket and trousers and trickled away into the dust. The music passed through him and came out distilled. The result sounded more like ‘Chloe’ than the ‘Blues of the Vagabond’. The junk merchant hummed an accompaniment of pastoral simplicity and swung his head to one side like a rattlesnake. He came to the end of his three choruses and stopped. Colin, filled with contentment to the very bottom of his soul, sat still. It was like the days before Chloe was ill.

  ‘What do you do now?’ asked the junctiquitarian …

  Colin got up and opened the front panel by turning the handle. They took the two glasses that were filled to the brim with shimmering liquid rainbows. The junctiquitarian drank first, licking his lips with his tongue.

  ‘It’s got exactly the taste of the blues,’ he said. ‘And exactly the taste of those blues I’ve just played. This invention of yours is super! …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Colin. ‘It always did work very well.’

  ‘You know,’ said the junctiquitarian, ‘I think I’m going to give you an excellent price for it.’

  ‘I’ll be very pleased if you do,’ said Colin. ‘Everything’s going very badly for me these days.’

  ‘That’s the way things are,’ said the junctiquitarian. ‘They can’t always go well.’

  ‘But they could try not to go badly so frequently,’ said Colin. ‘We remember good times much better – so what’s the good of bad times?’

  ‘Shall I play “Misty Morning”?’ suggested the junctiquitarian. ‘Does that make a good mixture?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Colin. ‘It makes something terrific. A pearl-grey mint green cocktail, tasting of peppery smoke.’

  The junctiquitarian sat down at the clavikeyboard again and played ‘Misty Morning’. Then they drank it. Next he played ‘Blue Bubbles’ and stopped because he found he was playing two notes at once, and Colin was hearing four different tunes at the same time. Colin carefully put down the lid.

  ‘Well,’ said the junctiquitarian, ‘shall we talk business now?’

  ‘Yerrup!’ said Colin.

  ‘Your clavicocktail is a fantastically gimmicky gadget,’ said the junctiquitarian. ‘I’ll give you three thousand doublezoons for it.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ said Colin. ‘That’s too much.’

  ‘I insist,’ said the junctiquitarian.

  ‘But that’s idiotic,’ said Colin. ‘I can’t accept it. I’ll take two thousand, if you like.’

  ‘No,’ said the junctiquitarian. ‘Take it back again. I refuse.’

  ‘I can’t sell it to you for three thousand,’ said Colin. ‘That would be daylight robbery! …’

  ‘Not at all …’ insisted the junctiquitarian. ‘I know, we’ll split it. I’ll give you two thousand five hundred doublezoons.’

  ‘All right,’ said Colin. ‘Done. But how are we going to darn that split?’

  ‘Take your dough …’ sai
d the junctiquitarian.

  Colin took the money and put it neatly in his crocket. He was swaying backwards and forwards.

  ‘I can’t stand up straight,’ he said.

  ‘Of course you can’t,’ said the junctiquitarian. ‘I hope you’ll come and listen to a glass with me now and again?’

  ‘I promise,’ said Colin. ‘But I must go now, or Nicholas will grumble at me.’

  ‘I’ll come part of the way with you,’ said the junctiquitarian. ‘I’ve got some shopping to do.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you! …’ said Colin.

  They went out of the shop. The green-blue sky was hanging almost on to the pavement and there were great white patches all over it where the clouds had just burst.

  ‘We’ve been having some stormy weather,’ said the junctiquitarian.

  They walked a few yards together and Colin’s companion stopped in front of a supermarket.

  ‘Wait for me a moment,’ he said. ‘I shan’t be long.’

  He went in. Colin saw him through the window picking up something which he held up to the light and looked at carefully before stuffing it into his pocket.

  ‘Here we are again! …’ he said, as he closed the door behind him.

  ‘What was it?’ asked Colin.

  ‘A spirit level,’ replied the junctiquitarian. ‘I’m going to play every tune I know once I’ve taken you home, and after that I’m going for a long, long walk …’

  46

  Nicholas was looking at the stove. He was sitting in front of it with a poker and a blow-lamp and checking up on the inside works. The top of the stove had sunken in and the stout metal sides were growing soft and mouldy like thin slices of gorgonzola. He heard Colin’s footsteps in the corridor and looked up. He felt tired. Colin pushed open the door and went in, looking very pleased.

  ‘Well?’ asked Nicholas. ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘I’ve sold it,’ said Colin. ‘Two thousand five hundred …’

  ‘Doublezoons? …’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Yes,’ said Colin.

  ‘Incredible! …’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting that much either. What were you doing with the stove?’

  ‘Looking it over,’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s trying to turn itself into a camp-fire and cauldron, and I wonder how the hell it’s doing it …’

  ‘It’s odd,’ said Colin, ‘but no more than the rest. Have you seen the corridor?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s like old floorboards now …’

  ‘I don’t want to have to tell you again,’ said Colin, ‘that I don’t want you to stay here any more.’

  ‘There’s a letter,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘From Chloe?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s on the table.’

  As he opened the letter Colin could hear Chloe’s silk-soft voice, and he had only to listen to it in order to read the letter. This is what it said,

  Colin, my darling,

  I am very well and the weather is lovely. The only things I don’t like are the snow-moles. They are little animals who burrow their way between the snow and the earth. They have marmalade fur and make lots of noise squeaking in the night. They make big molehills out of the snow and everybody trips over them. Everything here is brilliant with sunshine and I’ll be back again with you very very soon.

  ‘It’s a lovely letter,’ said Colin. ‘And now, off with you to the High-Pottinuices.’

  ‘I’m not going,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘You are,’ said Colin. ‘They need a cook and I don’t want you here any more … You’re getting too old, and I told you I’ve already said you’re going!’

  ‘And what about the mouse?’ said Nicholas. ‘Who’ll feed it?’

  ‘I’ll look after it,’ said Colin.

  ‘You wouldn’t know how to,’ said Nicholas. ‘And if you did that, then how would I know how things were going on?’

  ‘You’d find out,’ said Colin. ‘The atmosphere here’s getting you down. None of you can stand up to it …’

  ‘You’re always saying that,’ said Nicholas, ‘and it doesn’t explain a thing!’

  ‘Well,’ said Colin, ‘that isn’t the problem! …’

  Nicholas stood up and stretched. He looked very sad.

  ‘You don’t cook anything out of ffroydde any more,’ said Colin. ‘You neglect the kitchen, and you let yourself go.’

  ‘I don’t,’ protested Nicholas.

  ‘Let me finish,’ said Colin. ‘You don’t put your best clothes on at the week-end any more, and you don’t bother to shave in the mornings.’

  ‘It’s not a crime,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘It is a crime,’ said Colin. ‘I can’t give you as much money as you’re worth. But, the way things are going, you’re not going to be worth as much as you used to be … And it’s partly my fault.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Nicholas. ‘It’s not your fault if you’re being messed around.’

  ‘Yes it is,’ said Colin. ‘It’s because I got married and because …’

  ‘That’s idiotic,’ said Nicholas. ‘Who’ll do the cooking?’

  ‘I will,’ said Colin.

  ‘But you’ll be working! … You won’t have the time.’

  ‘No, I won’t be working. Don’t forget I’ve sold the clavicocktail for two thousand five hundred doublezoons.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘that’s put you in front a little.’

  ‘And you’re going to the High-Pottinuices,’ said Colin.

  ‘Oh!’ said Nicholas. ‘You get on my nerves. I’ll go – but it’s a lousy rotten trick.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll get your good manners back again there.’

  ‘You used to complain enough when I did have them …’

  ‘Yes,’ said Colin, ‘because I wasn’t worth wasting them on.’

  ‘You make me sick,’ said Nicholas. ‘You make me sick, sick, and sick …’

  47

  Colin could hear somebody knocking on the front door and he hurried to open it. One of his slippers had a large hole in it so he hid his foot under the carpet.

  ‘You’re up in the clouds here,’ said Gnawknuckle, going in.

  He was puffing and blowing in short pants.

  ‘Good-morning, doctor,’ said Colin, blushing because he had to take his foot out from under the carpet.

  ‘You’ve got a new flat,’ said the professor. ‘I didn’t have to climb so far before.’

  ‘No,’ said Colin. ‘It’s the same.’

  ‘Pull the other one,’ said the professor. ‘You never let on when you crack a joke so it seems all the funnier in the end.’

  ‘Do I?’ said Colin … ‘Maybe …’

  ‘How are things? And how’s the patient?’ said the professor.

  ‘Getting better,’ said Colin. ‘She looks better and she’s not in pain any more.’

  ‘Hrmm! …’ said the professor. ‘I don’t like the sound of that.’

  Followed by Colin, he went into Chloe’s room and ducked so as not to bang his head against the lintel over the door – but this came down at the same moment and the professor let out an enormous and unconventional Hippocratic oath. From her bed, Chloe laughed when she saw the way the professor was coming in.

  The room had grown very small now. Unlike the carpet in the other rooms, it had grown much thicker here and the pile was high. The bed was now in a little alcove with satin curtains. The old big window was perfectly divided into four little square panes by the stalactites and stalagmites whose stony growth was now complete. Everything there was bathed in a greyish – but nevertheless clean – light. And it was warm.

  ‘And you’re still telling me that you haven’t got a different flat, are you?’ said Gnawknuckle.

  ‘I swear to you, doctor …’ began Colin.

  He stopped, because the professor was looking at him in a worried and worrying way.

  ‘… I was only joking! …’ Colin concluded his sentence with an unconvincin
g laugh.

  Gnawknuckle went up to the bed.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘let’s have a look at you. I’ll have to sound you.’

  Chloe opened her swansdown bed-jacket. ‘Ah!’ said Gnawknuckle. ‘That’s where they operated on you …’

  Under her right breast she had a tiny scar, perfectly round.

  ‘Did they pull it out through there when it was dead?’ said the professor. ‘Was it very long?’

  ‘About a yard, I think,’ said Chloe. ‘With a great big flower, six inches across.’

  ‘Horrible thing! …’ mumbled the professor. ‘You did have bad luck. They’re pretty unusual that large!’

  ‘The other flowers made it die!’ said Chloe. ‘Especially some vanilla blossom that I had towards the end.’

  ‘Strange,’ said the professor. ‘I wouldn’t have thought vanilla would have had any effect at all. Now juniper or acacia would have been much more likely, in my opinion. But any fool can practise medicine, you know,’ he summed up.

  ‘I realize that your guess is as good as mine!’ said Chloe.

  The professor sounded her. He stood up again.

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But, of course, you aren’t the same as you were before.’

  ‘Aren’t I?’ said Chloe.

  ‘No,’ said the professor. ‘One lung has completely collapsed – or almost.’

  ‘I don’t care about that,’ said Chloe, ‘so long as the other one is all right!’

  ‘But if you catch something there,’ said the professor, ‘it will be rotten for your husband.’

  ‘But not for me?’ said Chloe.

  ‘Not for you any more,’ said the professor. He stood up.

  ‘I don’t want to frighten you for nothing, but do try to be very careful.’

  ‘I am very careful,’ said Chloe.

  Her eyes grew wide. She put a nervous hand through her hair.

  ‘What must I do to be sure nothing gets in the other one?’ she asked, almost with tears in her voice.

  ‘Don’t worry, my girl,’ said the professor. ‘There’s no reason why you should catch anything in it.’

  He looked round.

  ‘I liked your first flat better. It seemed much more healthy.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Colin. ‘But it isn’t our fault …’