My first impulse was just to return M. Delarue’s cheque but then I began to have second thoughts. In Crash Test I was showing a dummy being dismembered; how was that better than showing two dummies having a bit of fun? I could find no moral high ground so the question was simply how much the traffic would bear. I sent back the cheque and wrote that I couldn’t do what he wanted for less than twenty thousand pounds, half of it payable up front. By return of post I got a cheque for ten thousand pounds and the go-ahead. Twenty thousand pounds for a bonking toy! Obviously he was some kind of a nutter but the cheque was good. I’d half expected him to back off when I upped the price but now if I kept the money this thing was going to be for real. I decided to keep the money, and from that moment on I had a patron. I was to let M. Delarue know when the figures were ready and he would send a courier to take delivery and pay me the other ten thousand pounds.
The dummy in my Crash-Test set was a coarse and primitive thing compared to what Adelbert Delarue wanted. Thirty centimetres seems a lot of room until you think of batteries and a motor of some kind, and these would have to be articulated bodies that might be doing the whole Kama Sutra for all I knew. And of course they’d be radio-controlled and I didn’t want them to look like model cars with antennas sticking up out of them.
Then there was the matter of the ‘functional parts’. My first thought was that the male member might as well be in a state of permanent arousal but then I imagined the figure in solitary repose on a desk or table flaunting its priapism so I decided to accept the challenge: zoom lenses got longer or shorter at the touch of a button and the booms of model cranes went up and down so presumably the thing could be managed somehow. As for the ‘receptive orifices’, they’d need a soft lining to prevent the dummies from sounding like an abacus. The audio tape could be in the base, worked by the remote radio control.
What was I going to make my figures out of? The Crash-Test dummies had been plastic mass-produced from my clay model, pretty much like Action Man although better articulated. But for twenty thousand quid M. Delarue was entitled to something a little more upmarket so I decided on wood; it was going to take a lot of time but I wanted my porno-dummies to be work I could be proud of. More or less. I could already imagine carving them and sanding them smooth. Before going to wood, however, I thought it best to do some trial-and-error on a clay model. At Green & Stone in Chelsea where I sometimes bought art supplies I was told that I’d find everything I needed at Tiranti’s in Warren Street.
The day was grey but not yet showing its hand with any precipitation. I thought it might be a favourable greyness, it felt as if it was with me and not against me. Fulham Broadway station, excited by the attentions of workmen and machines, hummed in anticipation of the new self that would emerge from its chrysalis of scaffolding, hoardings, fluorescent tubing, and noise. Mid-morning, this was, and the platform not too crowded. The rails winced, a headlight appeared far back in the tunnel, gathered a Tower Hill train to itself in its onward rush, became large and loud, stopped, and slid its doors open. I boarded it, went to Embankment, and changed to the Northern Line.
When I came out at Warren Street there were red Jurassic earthmovers nodding and feeding behind the hoardings on the other side of Tottenham Court Road, their heads rising into view and dropping out of it again as two motionless cranes watched from a distance. I looked down Warren Street into a foursquare perspective of nothing in particular. ‘What?’ I said. Warren Street shrugged, and it began to rain, gently but perhaps with intent.
Undistracted by pubs, shops, cafés, and a health-food centre with free-standing sandwich boards that offered to restore the world’s love life with Viagra, I proceeded to the modest blue shopfront of Est. 1895 ALEC TIRANTI LIMITED, TOOLS, MATERIALS & EQUIPMENT FOR MODELLING, CARVING, SCULPTURE. BOOKSELLERS Inside, exotic labels whispered siren music of haematite, jade oil and iron paste along with gilt cream, antiquing fluid, cupra, black patinating wax, gold leaf and rust remover. Elementary and advanced glues urged me to stick my world together; coloured waxes evoked the ghost of Benvenuto Cellini; unrolled canvas rolls of sharp and slender shapers hinted at undreamt-of subtleties of form; short and tall modelling stands in wood and metal beckoned tripodally; calipers in many sizes promised to transfer any measurement faithfully; and rows of carving mallets in beech and hardwood silently insisted on the verb, ‘to thump’.
Ignoring everything but my immediate needs, I quickly acquired twenty-five kilos of terracotta clay, a nylon clay cutter, a tabletop modelling stand, two sliding armature supports, some armature wire, and a set of modelling tools. For the next stage, the woodcarving, I bought a book on how to do it, a variety of chisels, gouges, rifflers, fluters and veiners, beechwood handles as necessary, an oilstone, slipstones, honing oil, a buff hide leather strop, strop dressing, a small beechwood mallet, and a Scopas Chops, which was not a machine for decapitating sculptors but a kind of bench vice. Finally, with my Visa card breathing hard and myself in a state of wild surmise, I stepped out into the rain, found a taxi after a while, loaded my gear aboard, and went home.
I put the woodcarving equipment aside for the present and prepared for clay-modelling. New tools and materials have exciting smells; they smell as if good things are going to happen. ‘Here goes,’ I said. ‘This is the first moment of the rest of my life.’ I poured myself a large Jack Daniel’s, said, ‘Here’s looking at you,’ to whatever might be looking back, drank most of it, put the modelling stand on the work-bench, made the armature, cut off some clay, and started work on the female figure.
Although the traditional design of crash-dummies offers little scope for individuality I felt that liberties might be taken here and there; with the clay I could decide how far off straight I wanted to go, work out the articulation, and estimate my wood requirements. Both male and female faces would be blank and eyeless but the bodies could certainly help the body language along. The clay felt primeval under my hands; it smelled earthy and made me think of God and Adam. I watched my hands and was impressed by their confidence and skill. When I’d done both figures I must admit that I was pleased; the female was somewhat more voluptuous than the usual crash-dummy and the male was similarly robust; I was looking forward to seeing them in action.
I went to Moss & Co in Hammersmith for the wood. It was raining again that day; the greyness and the wet made the whole thing more private and I liked that. Moss & Co itself is rather private; it’s in Dimes Place, a tiny alley you could easily miss, off King Street. Most of the north side of King Street between the Broadway and Dimes Place is taken up by Kings Mall Shopping Centre. Everything is nothing, it said brightly as I passed. Everybody is nobody. I averted my eyes and hurried on to Dimes Place.
I love specialist suppliers of all kinds — places that have exactly what you need and know all there is to know about it. Moss & Co have been around for a hundred and fifteen years, and not only are all the people somebody but all the woods are somebody as well. When you turn into Dimes Place you’re in a long narrowness lined with sheds where long baulks of timber lean, each in their proper place with a sign on the shed saying what they are: iroko or jelutong or ebony, whatever. All the woods have their smells, sometimes very faint, like the ghost-breath of the trees they came from. When you look at all those straight and squared-off timbers you might not think of trees at first but in the sheds the forests gather round you, tall and shadowy, whispering wood. In the long narrow alley the paving stones glistened in the rain; the sounds of King Street were small and distant.
In the shed where the limewood was I put my hand on one of the timbers and closed my eyes. For a moment it seemed to me that I stood in an avenue of linden trees roofed in by dark leaves and branches that met over a dim perspective of shadowy trunks. There came to me the Schubert song, ‘Der Lindenbaum’, and with my hand on that wood I thought of Tilman Riemenschneider, the great fifteenth-century sculptor who worked mostly in lime. In the photographs in my books you can see his chisel marks on the faces of Chris
t and Mary and the saints.
I opened my eyes and I was back in Dimes Place and the whisper of the rain with my hand still on the wood. If I used lime I was connecting myself to that man who was, you might say, the Johann Sebastian Bach of woodcarving. Probably in his whole life he never got the equivalent of twenty thousand pounds for a single commission.
Stuart Duncan, one of the company directors of these ghostly forests, was in the office. I was half afraid that he’d ask me if I was qualified to use lime but when I told him what I wanted he said, ‘You can probably find what you need right out here.’ We went to the little room outside the office where there were remnants of various lengths and thicknesses. I found eight pieces that would give me more than I needed, all neat and smooth and blond.
On the way home on the Piccadilly Line I could see my chisels and gouges and hear the slithery rasp as I sharpened them on the oilstone. I felt wide-awake and excited. Odd, I thought, that I had never done any woodcarving. Why hadn’t I? The hand, the eye, and the mind respond differently to different tools and materials. Once home, I put the wood on my work-bench and there it waited, whispering to itself.
Before I began the actual carving I needed to know how the figures were going to be made to work so I browsed the small ads in Model World and found Dieter Scharf, I CAN MAKE IT WORK — SPECIAL APPLICATIONS TO ORDER. He was local, too. I got some sketches and notes down on paper then I rang him up and went to see him the next day.
Scharf lived off the North End Road in Eustace Road, which today seemed somewhat sullen and withdrawn; the houses were looking at me the way the regulars look at you when you wander into the wrong pub. The sky was overcast, as it often is when I’m trying to find something. When I rang the bell the door was answered by a stern middle-aged woman in a flowered apron. She looked like a housekeeper in a horror film. ‘He’s in the basement,’ she said. The house was dark and cool, the furniture was dark and brown; the curtains were drawn, the kitchen was silent.
Dieter Scharf’s workshop was dark and cosy; it smelled of electrical wiring, oiled metal, and cheap cigars. A light bulb in a green metal shade looked down on various little engines and skeletal articulations that littered his work-bench; some looked as if they were arrested in mid-crawl or mid-hop, others were not that far advanced. Tools hung in their painted outlines on the wall. From this moment on, I thought: What? You never know.
Scharf didn’t look like an indoor type; he was a short sturdy man with a brown weathered face, sudden blue eyes, and big strong hands. He might have been a charcoal-burner in a haunted forest, and although his basement was in SW6 it felt far away and elsewhere. He watched me as I took in his workshop. There was a sampler on the wall in a carved rustic frame; the stitches were in faded orange, pink, and mauve:
EGAL WIE MAN SICH DREHT,
DER ARSCH BLEIBT IMMER HINTEN.
‘What does that say?’ I asked him.
‘“Whichever way you turn, your arse stays always behind.” My grandmother gave me that.’
‘Words to live by,’ I said.
On a little box on the wall there was a small wooden figure of a horseman in medieval dress. About a foot to the right of the horseman was another little box with nothing on top of it. Between the two boxes and connected to them by wires was a pushbutton. ‘This is Eustace Road,’ said Scharf.
‘St Eustace?’ I said, pointing to the wooden horseman.
‘Right.’
‘But where’s the stag?’
‘Push the button.’
When I did that, St Eustace sprang from his horse and fell to his knees; the lid of the other box slid aside as a stag reared up, a tiny Jesus popped out of its head with his arms outspread between the antlers, and Bing Crosby sang ‘White Christmas’.
‘The music’s a nice touch,’ I said.
‘Goes pretty good, I think,’ said Scharf. ‘There never was a St Eustace.’
‘Just as well for him and his family; in the story they ended up being roasted alive in a brazen bull.’
‘This will teach us not to talk to strange stags. Have you an interesting problem for me?’
‘I think so.’ I showed him my sketches and explained my requirements.
Scharf laid the sketches on his work-bench and perused them, humming ‘Der Lindenbaum the while.
‘How come you’re humming that?’ I said.
‘It’s one of those songs that’s often in my head, it’s a goodbye song — he’s saying goodbye to his youth, his dreams, his hopes. The rustling of the branches speaks to him, offering rest; but for him there is no rest as off he goes on his winter journey. No rest for any of us, not?’
‘I guess not.’
He drummed on the sketches with his charcoal-burner’s fingers. ‘Someone has commissioned you to make this?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ll do anything for money, yes?’
‘I’ll do a lot of things for money.’
‘I also. Have you met this person who commissions you to do this?’
‘No.’
‘What, a letter comes out of nowhere?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then a cheque?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wonderful.’ He spread out the sketches and lit one of his foul cigars. ‘You want both figures to be active, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘In any position and independent of a base?’
‘Yes.’
‘So for this we need radio control. There must be an aerial on each one and I think you don’t want the sort that sticks up as on a model car.’
‘No.’
‘We can do internal ones if the distances are short. Probably these are for indoor use, not?’
‘I doubt very much he’d be taking them outdoors.’
‘So internal is OK then. You want the whole articulated torso to be motorised or only the pelvis?’
‘Pelvis only — the articulation will allow the rest of the torso to move with it.’
‘Arms? Legs?’
‘They’ll stay in the position they’re put in except as the pelvis moves them.’
‘Your sketch indicates that his pimmel elevates and extends — a commanding member, this one.’
‘Well, you know, this whole thing is what it is.’
‘I can make it work. You want the batteries in the thighs?’
‘That’s what I’m hoping. Will that be a problem?’
‘No, we can do this. Let me make my calculations, and if you phone me tomorrow I can tell you how much this will cost.’
We said our goodbyes; I made my way through the cigar smoke and walked home thinking about Adelbert Delarue. Twenty thousand pounds for a bonking toy! What kind of man would pay that kind of money for such a thing? Obviously someone who had money to throw around, and he’d turned up at a time when I needed money. This whole thing began to feel like something fated. Not for the first time I tried to visualise M. Delarue: sometimes I saw him alone and scholarly in a booklined study; sometimes in action with a partner while watching my crash-test dummies. Occasionally St Eustace and company got into the picture; Eustace leapt off his horse, the stag reared up; Jesus popped out of its head and watched while the dummies did their thing and M. Delarue and partner (frequently a stern housekeeper) did theirs.
When I got home I worked out how to get the necessary parts out of my blocks of lime, then I made drawings, transferred them to the wood, clamped the first block in the Scopas Chops, picked up chisel and mallet, and got started on the male torso. The mallet blows and the bite of the chisel sounded good to me; as the shavings fell away from my blade I felt hooked-up, connected, and it occurred to me that this might be how artists felt. In six weeks my figures were ready for Dieter Scharf. The drilling and carving for the motor, battery, and wiring spaces had been ticklish but although I’d bought enough wood to allow for errors and wastage I hadn’t made any errors and I’d wasted nothing.
Dieter Scharf charged me twenty-five hundred pounds for radio controls an
d aerials, motors and installation. I painted the quartered yellow-and-black discs on the dummies and varnished them. The smooth hardness of the lime and the polished surfaces heightened the anatomical hyperbole so that even side by side in repose the figures had a beguiling lewdness. When the male dummy zoomed into readiness and the female received him they did what they were designed to do; their blind and expressionless faces radiated a mystic calm while their lower parts worked tirelessly. The primary receptive orifice, lined with foam rubber, maintained a discreet silence as the pelvises kept up a quiet clacking that was as cosy as the tick of a kitchen clock. I put a Walkman mechanism and two little speakers in the base, the top of which was upholstered like the back seat of a car. The audio was car-crash sound effects, and I looped the tape so that the noise was continuous. When I had the whole thing put together with the dummies bonking and the sound crashing I showed it to Dieter and he said, ‘There we have it — dummy sex on a road to nowhere.’
I faxed M. Delarue and he replied that I was to send the radio controls, described as being for models, via DHL. The base was to go the same way, described as a customised Walkman. The figures would be collected by his personal courier the next afternoon. At about three o’clock that day a very large man with a shaven head appeared at my door. He had a big smile, several gold teeth, and an unbroken nose; my guess was that the other man’s nose was normally the one to get broken. He was about seven feet tall and carried a Louis Vuitton holdall. His suit was expensive but his wrists and hands came out of the sleeves in a grappling sort of way. ‘I am Jean-Louis, arrived by Eurostar,’ he said. ‘Me, I am ready to roll.’ His taxi stood waiting.
‘Do you watch a lot of American TV?’ I said. ‘Hill Street Blues repeats?’
‘You got it. I come from M. Delarue. Here is ID, also message.’ He pulled out a wallet and showed me a driver’s licence which identified him as Jean-Louis Galantière.