Are You Listening, Rabbi Löw

  ‘What is a raincheck.’

  ‘A raincheck honey is when you’re on the way to the baseball game and it rains. They cancel the game and your ticket is good for the next game.’

  ‘I’ll give you a raincheck. A raincheck I’ll give you.’

  ‘Hey jesus, this night is kind of getting a little out of hand. You know I was till only a few hours ago, in business with your brother. Now. Here is you. And as you might say. You. You. You. I’m going to be gone first thing in the morning. I got a real rush of stuff to attend to in London.’

  ‘London. O dear London. That does mean, doesn’t it. Gone, gone, gone. With your raincheck.’

  ‘Yeah. But not forgotten, forgotten, I hope. I hope. And for us honey, there could be a sunny day.’

  ‘Here, a nice dollop of caviare on a biscuit. And do you want to see my medical records.’

  ‘Jesus, come on, what kind of question is that.’

  ‘I just thought you might be interested to know just how nuts I am. I do occasionally need a nurse you know. The doctors say being nuts needn’t last. Indeed, the doctors don’t last. Of course they all end up asking me my advice.’

  ‘Look anyone who feels like a big juicy steak this hour of the morning ain’t nuts honey, believe me. I mean not completely nuts. I mean a good appetite in my books is the only sign of sanity. That’s what a Jewish philosopher told me.’

  ‘You’re Jewish.’

  ‘Yeah honey, I am.’

  ‘I don’t mean to sound at all superficial as I know it sounds, but O god that’s what really so excites me. Jewish intellectual men.’

  ‘Honey I’m no intellectual.’

  ‘We could put eyeglasses on you, that would do it, with thick lenses. I’m not particularly speaking of money making men you understand. Who wear bright garters pulling up their dark silk socks. And who want you to see them standing in their striped underwear from what they think is the smartest sort of men’s boutique. Not men who smoke big cigars. And who look you over shrewdly. And want you to look as if they owned your beauty they so casually exhibit by their side. Those sorts of men one can so effortlessly manipulate, manipulate. I like you because you are so straightforwardly simple and charming, charming. And when you flooded out your bathroom, panic went so easily to your head.’

  ‘Honey would you just hand me over that glass of water a second. And just let me unleash my elbow here. I just want to scratch my head. Plus I can’t even remember the fucking sort of underwear over there over the chair I’m wearing.’

  ‘O dear, my talking too much, is too much isn’t it. Has the magic moment gone. Gone gone.’

  ‘Honey any magic moment, I sure ain’t going to let go gone.’

  ‘O it could go. Couldn’t it. If it hasn’t. Could go gone, gone.’

  ‘Whew. Hold it, honey. Let me catch up. Please. I’m just savouring this last little bit of caviare.’

  ‘Yes. I will. I’ll wait. Then will you savour me. I have dreamed of pricks you know coming at me thick and fast from every direction with tons of lethal sperm. Men crawling at me on their hands and knees. Would you like to crawl at me. Would you. Across the floor. You see I’m really a trollop.’

  ‘You’re a lulu honey. And jesus, have a heart in my present condition and with only one prick, I should stay in bed.’

  ‘You stay. While my mind races, races. You’ll catch up. Puff puff puff, here you come. Catching up. Up. Let me show you in the candlelight. My body. And me. While you’re climbing, climbing. You see this is what I look like. Old aberrated me.’

  ‘Fucking god help us honey, I can’t believe God made two of you like that.’

  ‘Yes. Both my mother and me. Now there’s only me. And I’m just now so ever slightly fatter than I used to be. But I’m kind. I’m considerate. And are you thinking of mounting me. Shall I say O please, please. Mount me. And can I promise that it will. It will be. I’ll make it be. A great choral classic. Our limbs entwined. Thunderous and mild. I’ll hold you. I’ll be kind, kind. And I won’t, I won’t, not now, order room service. I wear a coil in my old withered womb, which is still so young. I could love you till I die, but I may die soon, soon soon. Do I, I do, see tears in your eyes. That’s not extraordinary is it. That’s just ordinary. That I’ll die soon soon soon. Ordinary.’

  ‘Honey at this juncture there are tears in my eyes, and I don’t care what the fuck it is. Ordinary or extraordinary.’

  Just

  Let’s go

  Voom

  Voom

  Voom

  17

  Raining in London. The train passing the back ends of endless houses. Steamed over evening windows of kitchens. Into a tunnel. Roaring down between walls. Whistle blowing. Wheels louder on the rails and diesel throbbing. Slowing and squealing to a stop in the station.

  Schultz in his compartment gathering up his two cases and hamper. Smoke in the air. Fell asleep in my seat. Slept like a log. Holy shit what a memory she’s going to be. One of my favourite names. Catherine. Call her Kate. She made me blush all over the face. Coo coo in the head. Her magic looks of beauty. Last seen disappearing in a flash of light as I watched her tiptoe out the bedroom door. Now suddenly I got new pain for old. Except for his Lordship I nearly own the whole show. Can call all the shots. And jesus Rabbi you’d think that with all this much financial interest to think about I’d lose all my interest in women. Ah Sigmund, you should know by now, money is a philtre. Christ Rabbi I got to revise all I ever knew before about females. Sigmund, what revision, you knew nothing anyway. Thanks a bunch Rabbi for the vote of confidence.

  Approaching along the platform, Jorricks’s smiling face greeting Schultz as he steps off the train. Hurrying to take the bags as other passengers and pedestrians turn around to stare. Schultz donning his sunglasses. The limousine purring on the roadway adjoining the platform, polished fenders sparkling with beads of rain. Climbing into the dry warmth. The two plaid rugs laid out and the evening newspapers neatly folded on top. The limousine pulling away past long queues waiting for taxi cabs.

  ‘Home sir.’

  ‘No. The theatre Jorricks.’

  ‘Business is very very up sir. The advance is building twice as fast as it was last week. I suppose due to all the fuss. I think you’ll be pleased too sir to hear that Daniel the Dangerous as he seems to prefer to be known has been a considerable help in keeping the Press at bay. I hope you don’t mind sir but I had to fix up a bed for him in the boxroom by the pantry. He was fired from the hospital and had nowhere to sleep. I hope I haven’t done wrong.’

  ‘These days Jorricks who knows anymore what wrong is. Anyway don’t worry you and the Ambassador were a big help. And glad to have Daniel around if he wants to stay. Jesus, how are the pigeons, Jorricks.’

  ‘O they’re fine. Daniel’s taking care of them and they’re eating their heads off. And Mr Sunningdale sir, how is he. I’m sure he took his mother’s death very hard.’

  ‘Yeah. He took it hard.’

  Windscreen wipers waving, the limousine purring through Bloomsbury past the great grey brooding buildings. Schultz grabbing up the phone. Holy shit. Louella. Got to ring her. All I’ve got is visions. A dream on the train. That a dozen guys were waiting panting in a line to fuck her.

  ‘Hey gee Louella honey it’s me, Sigmund. Hello. Hello.’

  ‘I know who it is. I don’t want to talk.’

  ‘What’s wrong now. I’m just back in town a second.’

  ‘Nothing’s wrong now that wasn’t wrong before.’

  ‘How’s Al.’

  ‘I’m not telling you how Al is. I just don’t want to talk.’

  ‘Come on. He’s my ancient friend. And I just thought honey, with his gaskets all fixed up again, you know, that maybe he’s flying back to London or something. Or did he finally gasp out his last croak in LA.'

  Schultz pulling the phone away from his ear as the other end of the line slammed down. It shows you. Always follow up every potential fuck. Because every two seco
nds you learn someone you want to fuck isn’t going to fuck or even talk. Pick up the evening newspaper. Maybe there’s another Arab Israeli war broke out I can take sides on and read about. Holy shit what’s this. In the Londoner’s Diary.

  HAREM IN BELGRAVIA

  Last evening from out of the Belgravia elegant residence of the famed impresario Sigmund Franz Schultz, who is also known to intimates as ‘Siggy’, came three of his visitors from what is, to quote Mr Schultz’s high-diving celebrity wife, her estranged husband’s ‘harem household’. Mr Schultz being unavailable for comment, this Islamic custom was hotly denied by Mr Schultz’s butler and by his body guard who, naked to the waist and waving a fist, threatened from the servants’ basement door to punch this reporter ‘up the snout’ and rip certain pertinent private appendages from his person.

  That malicious cunt. This is more ridicule and contempt. And these journalist fuckers. I’m going to get them for libel. Show biz code. Every day that things seem good, don’t believe it, and do something quick to make them seem even better so that when you find next day that they are pretty fucking awful, they might not seem to be that bad after all. Are you listening Rabbi. Sigmund I am. And sometimes I think you instead of me should be down here in this ground under my slab giving advice.

  The limousine cruising down this street full of theatres. Pulling up in front of the blazing lights. The front of house signs. In big letters proclaiming one of the great comic creations of our time. With all the other signs blazoning words like, Genius, Beautiful, Captivating, Marvellous, that I had the brilliant fucking nerve and wisdom to quote out of their panning context. Plus the giant photograph of Magillacurdy, his big big bullshitting mouth open as usual. Tonight at 7.45. Jesus here it is. Triumph. Nearly own the whole fucking show. Boy let me taste it just a second. Read the signs. Read those you fuckers. Sold out. House full. I’ll say. You bastards. Who wouldn’t back me. Who panned me and dumped the ridicule.

  A young boy pushing out the lobby door. Schultz standing aside holding it open. The boy’s mouth and lips pressed to cry. Tears in his eyes.

  ‘Hey what’s the matter kid.’

  ‘Nothing sir.’

  ‘Did you get hurt. What are you crying for. Something happen. Come on, what’s the matter.’

  ‘I wanted to buy a ticket and I don’t have enough money for one.’

  ‘Hey that’s no reason to cry.’

  ‘The man told me to go away and not waste his time.’

  ‘He what. Hey you come this way kid with me. Come on.’

  Slamming the swing door closed behind, Schultz crossing the lobby. Guiding the boy by the shoulder in front of him. Yanking open the narrow box office door. The row of telephones along the counter, receivers off the hooks. Two box office employees sitting on stools reading newspapers and chomping on sandwiches and drinking cups of tea. Their usual supercilious superior looks on their faces vanishing and pieces of lettuce sticking out, as their mouths drop open.

  ‘O hello Mr Schultz.’

  ‘Put down those god damn newspapers and put those receivers back on the hooks. What the hell do you think this is in here. Some kind of private club. Did you refuse to sell this kid a ticket.’

  ‘Well. In a manner of speaking yes.’

  ‘Well in a bloody manner of speaking I’m telling you, nobody but nobody no matter how much little money they’ve got, and especially not a young kid ever gets turned away from this box office. You hear what I’m saying.’

  ‘Yes Mr Schultz.’

  ‘Get off those fucking stools.’

  ‘Yes Mr Schultz.’

  ‘Now, here, here’s the money. You give this kid a ticket, the best in the house for tonight’s performance.’

  ‘We’re sold out sir.’

  ‘What about the aisle seats behind the pillars.’

  ‘Sold sir.’

  ‘What about the boxes.’

  ‘There’s only the Royal box sir. And of course that’s reserved.’ ‘Yeah. It’s reserved. For this kid, right here. The Royal box then. You take his name.’

  ‘But sir, the Royal retiring room.’

  ‘You reserve that too.’

  ‘But Mr Schultz it’s being used to serve intermission drinks to very important people.’

  ‘Well now it ain’t. And you tell the manager I said to bring this young man anything he wants. And as long as this show is running and every night it lasts, this kid gets a ticket. Do you hear me. Whether he can pay or not. Now answer those ringing fucking phones.’

  ‘Yes. Mr Schultz. And there’s mail here for you, sir.’

  Schultz taking the stack of envelopes. Escorting the boy back across the lobby and holding open the theatre’s front swing door. The boy putting forth his hand to shake.

  ‘Sir I never knew this was going to happen to me.’

  ‘Well a lot of things we don’t know are going to happen, happen. You like the theatre sonny.’

  ‘Yes sir. I love the theatre.’

  ‘Good, you keep loving it. You got a nice private room to yourself during intermission if you want to invite a friend.’

  ‘Thank you so much sir, I am most grateful. It’s so awfully kind of you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it kid, don’t mention it. It’s just from one theatre lover to another, that’s all.’

  Schultz returning across the lobby. Going down the stairs into the stalls. The curtain up on the sets of the first act. A working light on stage. Dark out across the rows of seats. Holy jeez. I’m a theatre lover. I guess it’s the truest thing I ever said in my life. And here I am, rejected in love by the woman I love. Where to go, where to go, in the world, in the world. But maybe for the first time in my life. I got choices. Because I’m actually in a theatre where everything is not going down the drain. And now suddenly, except for his Lordship’s share and a few of Al’s stupid investors, I nearly own the whole show. I can call all the shots. Sell all the rights. Even down a side alley in Istanbul. Holy shit. It’s just dawned on me. Binky must be in trouble. Why would he sell me, the man he likes to torture most, his piece of the show. But jesus the urbane fucker. Through death, through everything, not a twinge of ever even giving the game away. Unless he’s still got some hidden scheme up his sleeve to finally fuck me.

  Schultz in his commandeered dressing room. The lights blazing around the mirrors, keeping at bay the years of thespian ghosts. Sitting down on a couch with a fist full of the nightly returns. Leafing through. My god. Look at these wonderful numbers. Big. Fat. Even when the house is full we can still squeeze out that fraction of an inch selling someone a piece of step to sit on in the aisle behind a pillar. And soon we’ll be selling seats in people’s laps. Last Tuesday an all time record for the theatre. When Priscilla nosedived off the bridge. Holy cow what next is in my life. Half these letters are from her fucking lawyers.

  Schultz jumping up off the couch, ripping open letter after letter. Tearing up and throwing the pieces across the room, shouting.

  ‘You fuckers, you’re all going to get one hundred fucking percent less than fuck all out of me. Nobody, but nobody from now on ever ever threatens Sigmund Franz Schultz and gets away with it. And nobody but nobody is ever going to make mincemeat or ridicule out of his life.’

  The dressing room door swinging open. A great grinning head and pair of massive naked shoulders leaning in. A bottle of whiskey held in the hand of Terence Magillacurdy.

  ‘Ah me boyo, fine sentiments. I thought I heard someone lurking down me corridor, an hour before curtain up. Now when you’re not telling us all to fuck off on television where are you hiding yourself these days. And pardon me in me undershorts and bare feet. Have a drink.’

  ‘Jesus Terence, you gave me a shock. How are you.’

  ‘Great me boyo. Great is the word. To me old practised eye they look to be lawyers’ letters you’re shredding asunder there. Ah but god you’ve taken the nation by storm.’

  ‘Holy fuck Terence, I didn’t want to take the fucking nation by anything. I
’m just looking for a little lonely peace and quiet somewhere. Like I sometimes enjoy every once in a while in this dressing room.’

  ‘Ah now your shrinking violet modesty will get you somewhere. And with the two of us together now, and with the theatre bursting at the seams every night, sure we walk hand in hand in fame and glory to the giant mausoleums we will be building for ourselves soon. Ah but now you’ll be wondering why I had your big car out there measured end to end. Well it’s only so me own I’ve just obtained was only that wee fraction of an inch longer that no one will notice. Ah god but it does attract attention. They see me chauffeur pulling up and getting in and out the stage door alley here of an evening now is like battling through the starving hordes of Africa while chewing a porterhouse steak. Ah but what I do is run off a sheaf of autographs and at the strategic time fling them into the air and as the fans run to get them I slip into me car and me chauffeur has me out safe in the traffic of Trafalgar Square in no time. Have a drink. Of the very best fifteen year old Irish whiskey.’

  ‘Jesus I will Terence.’

  ‘Now listen to me. Me wife has flung me out of the house.’

  ‘Holy shit Terence I didn’t know you were even married.’

  ‘Ah but pure simple truth of the matter is she has a great arse on her and a pair of thighs between which there was both paradise lost and found and that I couldn’t keep my hands away from and my prick out of and the battle of avoiding marriage got too much. And hung over drunk one morning and helpless in my abject misery I did the deed. To my present everlasting great regret. But me boyo it’s a penance I’ve now paid. Sure there’s an impression of my fist deep in the white smooth surface of the refrigerator which my wife took a plaster cast of to give to her lawyer when my fist missed her face one night in the kitchen. Sure it was just an instant little lesson I was giving trying to pound some obedient peace and quiet into her. That’s why I was living in a cemetery when you first found me along with me own collection of lawyers’ letters suing me for every belch and fart I ever uttered. But look at us now. Up into the heights me boyo we go. Me dressing room is so jammed after the show I can’t bend my elbow to take off me greasepaint. And here in my pocket, a fistful of cables from Hollywood just asking me to name my price.’