Mr. Smith, a military strategist in the last conflict, has consistently refused to give interviews, however, it is known that he occupies two back rooms at Dynamo House having recently removed from an office midtown, but the true nature of his business remains unknown. It had been previously said in some quarters that Mr. Smith was of no fixed address. It is now established he keeps an apartment in Merry Mansions where many of the city's celebrities reside. It is further rumoured that Mr. Smith has been long engaged in the construction of a tomb to house his remains, reputed to be one of the most elaborate ever erected, entirely air conditioned with special foundations to protect the structure from floods and earthquake. The Renown Cemetery authorities refuse to comment on this, said to be the most costly construction to date in the Cemetery and which till now had been associated with the name of a Doctor Fear.
Smith emerging from the back room. Level lipped and grim. Phone ringing. Rapping on the door. All at once. Everything.
"I'll get the door, Miss Martin. You get the phone."
Smith opening the door. A little boy in uniform. A letter.
"Special messenger delivery."
"Thank you."
Smith slowly closing the door in which it seemed a small foot was put.
"I beg your pardon, little boy. Your foot's in the door."
"Yeah."
"Won't you take it out."
"Hey some people, I guess you don't get any appreciation."
"What are you talking about sonny."
"A tip."
"What do you mean a tip."
"Ain't you this guy with his picture in the paper this morning. Well you should give me a tip for bringing a message."
"Just hold it sonny, I'll read it."
i Electricity Street
604 Dynamo
Owl Street
Dear Sir,
How dare you attempt to mail me such a thing. Do not refer to me as Junior.
jjj.
P.S. You will hoot before long.
"Now sonny, if I ever see your face again, I'll put it through the floor. Bye bye."
One finds that the pressures in the world build up and that one unfriendly act begets another. Zoom. Suddenly all dignity is gone. People go in using blows with the shod foot. On the prone figure. Sometimes, even when interpreted as weakness, it's as well to try a certain amount of easy latitude which can lend a bit of nervous laughter to a situation. Therefore I will scribble one last response showing a vestige of faith in his sense of humour.
Dynamo House
Owl Street
Dear Fellow and Junior,
I thought the incredibility of mailing you an unsolicited piece of ass might amuse you. Toodle oo.
George Smith
P.S. I see well in the dark.
"Miss Martin just send off this last letter before packing up."
"Mr. Smith, it's the News Of The Truth asking for comments, what shall I say, about an air conditioned grave."
"Say they've got the wrong number."
"You've got the wrong number, sorry. No. Yes. Mr. Smith. Yes. Mr. Smith, they say they know it's not the wrong number."
"Tell them it will be soon."
"Mr. Smith says it will be soon."
"Now hang up, Miss Martin. Let's get cracking. Find out when passengers debark from the S.S. Gnatit. Check on the car, see it's on the way. Pack up my papers, the green files marked go and lock up the yellow files marked caution and the red marked stop. Don't forget the eraser."
"Please Mr. Smith. I'm already up to my teeth."
"What's that."
"I'm trying to do everything."
"Miss Martin we've got to scram."
"Give me a chance. One thing at a time. Mr. Smith."
"Don't be disloyal at a time like this Miss Martin."
"For God's sake Mr. Smith I'm not being disloyal. I'm going crazy. There. The phone again."
"Just say Beetroot Department."
Miss Martin closing her eyes as she picks up the phone.
These are troubled times.
"Hello, Beetroot Department. Who. No. Not here, wrong number. Mr. Smith, it's a message, from JJJ."
"What is it. Out with it."
"They're reading it."
"What, for God's sake."
"They say, all of us here have been acquainted with your kind before. And as married men with children we will not stand for this latest sauciness."
"Tell them wrong number, beet barge disposal unit for dumping in the bay."
Poor Miss Martin, delivering the message, putting down phone. Pulling out drawers. Collecting papers. Phone ringing again. Marvelous the rapidity of communication. And she says yes mom, I told you mom, chaperoned, yes, just a bunch of young kids, going to the country, games, swimming, tennis, very rich important people mom, 111 never have another chance like this one, she's going to loan me all the clothes I need, mom, please, don't worry, yes, Til ring you, you worry about nothing, you have to trust somebody, do you want me to die without any fun mom, all right, O.K. I'll phone, goodbye mom, I will, I promise, goodbye.
"Mr. Smith, guess you heard that was my mother."
"Yes, Miss Martin."
Smith retreating to rear room. Lifting the white shade a mite to peer out at the glistening tiles. For way up at the end of the shaft the sun is shining and just a ray or two is getting reflected down. I want peace. Candlelight, wine and olives. So many people feel resentment and jealousy. A whiff of spice then, in the window. Out of the warehouse a few buildings away. Cinnamon. Cloves. Bonniface at this second is flatfooting it down the pier stopping momentarily to don roller skates the quicker to nail me at Dynamo House. Ask me if he can stay in my tomb. I say, George, sport, just let me rest up in there.
"Miss Martin the car."
"Mr. Smith I told him the newspaper kiosk at the corner in five minutes."
"You genius Miss Martin. You're ready. Good gracious we've had quite a little morning of it. Don't answer that phone. Somehow I know who it is. Out now* Lock the door. Got the files."
"Yes, Mr. Smith."
"You're sure now you don't feel awkward coming with me."
"No, Mr. Smith."
"Your mother's at ease."
"No."
"That's the way with mothers, Miss Martin. They can never cut the apron strings, always afraid someone will take advantage."
"I know Mr. Smith, it's terrible. I always have to lie."
Sun pouring through the glass doors of Dynamo House. Pigeons pecking. Flow of people in and out. Newspaper said there were crowds but on that rainy day I didn't see a soul. Nor was I sporting the carnation. No one gives a damn for the facts these days. Any second Bonniface will be skidding round the corner on the roller skates.
Mr. Smith and Miss Martin, arms laden. Foolish files. All marked go and green. These two figures emerging from a side door of Dynamo House. Into the pleasure of the breeze. Past pigeon feeders with hats propped back on their heads, communicating with the fat birds. Smith taking a flash of fear up the keester. Some unidentifiable ship blasting its hooter. Denoting all tied up ready to debark the living desperate cargo. One of whom is trying to begin a new life without a bean.
So far so good. Unnoticed down the steps. Miss Martin leading. Black high heels bringing one's notice to a rather good leg. Be so nice to be out in the country. Trampling the flowers and shrubs. Between trees and over outcrops of rock. How to explain to Miss Martin the cabin in the woods. With only one bedroom. Albeit a bed either side of the fireplace in the living room. Albeit this. That word steers into my head at die least nervousness. Of course I will give Miss Martin the log cabin while I sleep out on the outcropping of rock. I don't mind the snakes. No, you take the bed Miss Martin, I .wouldn't think of it. I always sleep outside in nature. Little poison seeping into a backside never hurt me.
Newspaper kiosk. My face everywhere plastered over it. Terror of having something recognised on you wherever you go. Which you can't take off or change unless to grow a b
eard which would be utterly objectionable. A friendly face. The chauffeur I've had before.
"How do Mr. Smith. See you're getting well known round these parts."
"I'm afraid so. As fast as you can, Renown Cemetery first stop. O.K. Miss Martin, get in for God's sake."
"Give me a chance Mr. Smith. You're pushing*"
"Sorry. Someone's bound to spot us. This is too easy. I suspect something."
"Well please don't push, my arms are full."
Smith stony in the car. Next to Miss Martin. Neglecting to help her pull the rug up over her knees. A slight chill in the air, albeit sunny. Albeit this. My nerves. The vehicle pulling away with speed. Cruising up to the first traffic lights. Through the fish market. The dark shadows in there, the poor boxes of flounder, the big dead eyes under the ice. Don't worry I've lurked around there witnessing the wholesale death. Being also fond of the grilled fillet.
Squeal of tires. Left turn. Crosstown. The square with a statue. Miss Martin silent, won't give me any rug. All right if that's the way you want it Miss Martin. I can be silent and aloof. I may even pick up the phone and call Miss Tomson. Well hi, Sally. Gee. Gee. Mr. Smith. Gee Sally. The words I invent under stress. A few hundred cats have popped out of a few thousand bags. Run round wild trying to get them back in again.
"Miss Martin if you'd rather not come. I mean we could drop you at a subway. I mean if you'd really feel easier that way. I'm only suggesting."
"Well maybe you'd better, Mr. Smith."
Smith reaching for the microphone. How does one get out of this. Dear God don't let any subway entrances suddenly appear. Never bear being in the country utterly alone. No one to hole up with. Lock out the naughty world. Act as a buffer to the flying acorns, grapes, eggs. Miss Martin and I have been through a lot together recently. One mingle among the mops.
"You're sure Miss Martin. It's only that I feel you might not like it. Way out in the woods overlooking a river down deep in the valley. Lovely sound of the water rapids. New green buds on the trees. Dew on the fields. Nature in all her glory. It might make you unnecessarily nervous, beauty can, you know."
"Mr. Smith if I back out now, my mother will suspect something."
"I'm glad you brought up that point. I can see we're committed to our plan. Heavens. The river already."
Wind down there bending newly planted trees. Flood tide beating up foam on ships anchored midstream. Sun glinting copper on the tall buildings standing over the park. Great silver threads strung holding up the bridge ahead. And nearby here there's an institution with people playing bridge and poker showing each other their cards. No need any longer to conceal. Face other citizens with smiles, laughter, and jelly beans bouncing round in the palm of the hand. What relief to be crazy.
Black vehicle through the green golf course. Specks of players swatting their little white spheres into the green distance. The cobbled road ahead. Trolley on the tracks. Roaring north. Always wanted to ride it. And ahead the gates. And my God, a gathering. Of the press. Cameras. There has been a security leak.
"Miss Martin, Christ."
"Mr. Smith, O dear."
"Let me under the rug. On the floor. All we have to do is get in the gate."
"Mr. Smith what's my mother going to say if this gets in the papers."
Interesting that in times of terror, when die boom is to be lowered, people you hire to save you trouble and trembling, think instantly of their own skins. As things come out of the void to get you. Bullets, buses, trucks, germs. And now a group of gazeteers.
"Miss Martin behave as if you're on your way to see your dead husband. While I lie rather low under this rug."
"Mr. Smith, the cameras. They're blocking the gates."
"Driver, drive on. Beep, beep, if necessary."
The bubbling bow tied voices outside the window of the car. Come on, Mr. Smith, we know you're under that blanket, give us a flash of face. Who's the doll. Hey Mr. Smith, what do you do for a living. Come on, one picture.
Smith crouched in the woolly darkness of dust and smells. Revving of engine, trembling eight cylinders, each one doing its little job to propel this black vehicle forward. Worms and gears under the floor, meshing, spinning, pistons pumping. How's your piston. Say some women like it long and slow. Others like it short and fast. And those like Shirl who just like it. Any way at all.
Clang of gates. Smith nipping head up. Five security guards forcing the great black spokes and curlicues on the whining hinges back against the group of gazeteers. Flash bulbs popping. Shouts of outrage. Freedom of the press. Who does that guy think he is. Somebody.
Miss Martin scared. Biting her lips. Looking to George Smith crawling back to the seat on hands and knees. One green file of papers spilling out. This whole manoeuvre is a disgrace.
"Mr. Smith if my mother sees my picture."
"Be quiet."
"I will not, why didn't you let me get on the floor too."
"Can't have an empty car go through."
"They knew it was you all the time, what does it matter."
"I do not want my replica in the papers."
"You bastard."
"I beg your pardon Miss Martin. What did you say."
"You heard me."
All I need. For Miss Martin to go agley on me. Pout, stamp and generally upstage my authority. When they learn about your inner life, wham they take liberties with the outer. Until one is driven to putting on the stone face with creases downturned around the eyes and mouth. Scowl. Miss Martin's calf. Had no idea that little muscle was so nicely turned. Nicely contrasted against the car seat.
Momentarily the black car stopping at the Renown Cemetery office. A gentleman darkly clothed coming down the steps and climbing into Smith's car. Which pulls away leaving behind the big gate and the pushers on either side, as it stands shut, tall and iron between them. Thanks be to metal.
"Miss Martin this is Mr. Noble. My secretary Miss Martin. Now Mr. Noble."
"It's beyond my comprehension how this has happened Mr. Smith. Every precaution has been taken since work began. As you know we have so many contracts but we made every effort to avoid anything unseemly."
"We can only but pick up the pieces now, Mr. Noble. It's put me in rather an embarrassing position. But silence is the only answer at this stage."
"There's been this woman in black, Mr. Smith."
"I've heard."
"We just don't know if there's any connection. I mean to say Mr. Smith the cemetery management want to extend every apology and assure you that no one except our Mr. Browning knew the situation. And he, of course, is above suspicion. Will you have a cigar."
"Thank you Mr. Noble."
"May I use your telephone, Mr. Smith."
"By all means do."
"I'll get in touch with the North Gate and make sure the way is clear. Anyway Mr. Smith we've screened in the site. Like to cruise by."
Under the budding trees. The lilting tips of green. The little shrubberies. Marble steps, pillars, stones. Stained glass in spring sunlight. Wheels humming on the pebbled drives. Smith giving signals through to the driver. A gauze screen standing high and white shaking in the breeze.
"I'm glad you've done that, Mr. Noble."
"We thought it would take care of any more snoopers Mr. Smith."
Along the main avenue of Renown Cemetery and down a winding hill. An iron fence on top of a high stone wall. And beyond, the train tracks, a park and small river. Tall old elm trees. Magnolia all ready for the blossom and bud. Car slowing and stopping just past a building set in the side of a hill with two long canopies extending out to the road. Uniformed guards saluting Mr. Noble stepping out of the car. Bending over to say parting words to George Smith.
"And just for the record, Mr. Smith, on behalf of the corporation, management and myself, I extend our most sincere apologies for what has happened. You go off now Mr. Smith and forget about any more trouble with this."
"Thank you Mr. Noble. I appreciate it."
"The
way is clear. Reporters think you're leaving by the West Gate Mr. Smith."
"Ah God."
"Never mind Mr. Smith everything's going to be all right."
"One parting word, Mr. Noble, hardly know how to put this, but if someone should come along, I know this sounds crazy, but should someone take up position near my site playing music on a piece of paper pressed against a comb, just ignore them."
"I'll pass that on, Mr. Smith. Anything at all. Like that cigar, did you."
"Marvelous, Mr. Noble. Bye bye, now."
"Best of good luck to you, Mr. Smith."
Gasoline station. Smith's car stopping to get filled. The windows wiped and polished. Smith sitting, one hand resting flat on the seat. And in the silence. On top of that hand, came the hand of Miss Martin. Pressing down on Smith's own flesh. Stirring his mind. Closing up the ears. Choking up the heart. For somehow one wants to cry. Salty flow to wash all the terrible misunderstanding away.
Smith's car creeping by a coal siding for freight trains. Out onto a dark road along a river and train tracks. Clicked along here in the club car, the evening with Miss Tomson. Parents dead. Miss Needles of the post office fighting a losing battle against chiselers, twisters and louts. Miss Martin trembles. Poor kid. She wants warmth and friendship. Instead of the elbow jostling everywhere. Wrap my arms around her. God give me nerve. Rest on one of her breasts. White soft comfort. All hangs on a thread. Putting her hand on mine. Chilly cold thing comes up in the mind, you think how can anyone really feel heartfelt for me. There I am in the newspaper. Had a dignified mother and father carrying their backs straight. Never hurt a soul where a lonely sea beat waves up on a shore. And two trains a day went by. Hooting. Miss Martin a little hesitant secretary. On her first day she wore a filmy scarf, so shy stumbling over her words. Now says, you bastard.
Northward through low hills and tidy white clapboard towns, neat stark and full of dreams. Country side growing green. Long narrow lanes now, between woods and then crossroads with a white church and steeple. Wide shady porches of houses tucked in under the trees. Smith telling out the turns in a low voice into the little microphone, driver raising a finger quietly shaking head as he gets the message.