Jesus
This is what
The Jews
Did
To Christ
16
That night stepping crumpled up from a taxi. Schultz perambulated about the shadowy gardens of Belgrave Square. Until a black cat scampered along the pavement across Schultz’s path as he headed up the steps to the perfumed hall of number four. And shivered past the stack of roses. Past the pantry. Down the stairs. To flick the light on in the kitchen and look in the cupboards for some kind of stomach soothing concoction. And wham. Kick and trip over the garbage pail. Strewing contents across the floor.
“Holy shit. I’m distraught. What’s all this. On the tiles. My fucking mail. O dear god, my Royal invitation to the palace. Torn into little pieces. And this. Photographs. Ripped up. The bitch must have gone through every one of my drawers and papers I had under lock and key. This is the god damn ruination of beautiful memories. Every girl I ever knew nearly. Or ever tried to seduce when I cast them in a fucking production. Or who might have meant something to me. Including, would you believe it, pictures of my own mother. And Jesus, my Aunt Essie, when they were good looking young women back in the ghetto in Prague. Nothing, fucking nothing is sacred anymore. I could cry. Jesus I am crying. My poor fucking mother and father. When you come to look at it, all the sacrifice they did for me. Marking down lingerie which were already bargains. Just to make a sale. Jesus this is too painfully sentimental. I’m having a fucking breakdown. I need an aspirin. Al calls himself my friend. He’s a big fucking mother spider. I’m going to keep out of their web. For the rest of my fucking life. I don’t care who hears me all over Belgravia at midnight, I, Sigmund Franz Schultz, am going to sweat, practise and train, and turn myself into the most indomitable muscle bound mountain of resolute unyielding fucking stubborn fortitude who ever avoided marriage. And no woman fat, beautiful or otherwise is ever ever going to do to me what was done to me through the recent past. Jesus what’s that.”
Schultz’s shoulders jerking backwards as if shot. And spinning around from his commiseration. Staring towards the larder.
“A noise was made in there. Christ now I got rats or something.”
Schultz stepping across to the cream panelled door. Waiting listening. Slowly pushing it open. The kitchen light. Shining in.
“Jesus what the fucking hell are you doing in here.”
“Forgive me. Please. I am nowhere to go. I run away. I look. I find nowhere. I come here. Don’t make me go. I am Greta.”
“Holy shit. I know you’re Greta. Honey come out. As if I didn’t have enough trouble without you already. Jesus you’re all dirty. Where the fuck have you been. Go have a bath.”
“Thank you. Thank you.”
“But Jesus. You can’t stay here.”
“I no like it there to go back to Hornchurch.”
“Hey baby. Look. I’m telling you. You can’t stay here.”
“Please, I beg. Please. I no can go back.”
“What’s wrong.”
“The man of the house. He try all the time jump on me to kiss me.”
“Jesus tell his wife.”
“I cannot. She try all the time jump on me too to kiss me.”
“Well Jesus, let them kiss you for christ’s sake.”
“I have done. And now they fight with knives over me.”
“Holy shit kid. You got a problem. O.K. for tonight you can stay.”
“O thank you. Thank you.”
“Shit no kisses for me tonight. Just make me some Horlicks with some honey and hot milk.”
“O yes. Yes.”
“Bring it up to the bedroom.”
“O yes. Yes.”
Schultz staring in darkness. The light from the throbbing diesel of a passing taxi flashing on the bedroom ceiling. A quiet sobbing shaking the mattress as Greta wept. Schultz reaching out to touch this arm and hand which squeezed tight to his own. Suffer little children to come unto me. Heard that somewhere in my life. Probably was some publicity provoking statement made by a grown up Jesus. Feel a welling up just below the lungs. My own tears now are pouring down my face. Christ here we are. This au pair turning now to comfort me. And we’re both clinging together, sobbing to sleep. Boy if that don’t make sad headlines. In my personal history.
A streak of light waving between the drawn bedroom curtains. Greta snoring beside him. Schultz reaching over across her to turn on his lamp. And catching his wristwatch by the strap to read the time. Christ almighty. Do I have to knock over a glass of water. First move I make waking up is a disaster already. It’s twelve o’fucking o’clock. I should have been at the office two hours ago. Now I got all this on my hands. Even with her limited English she must have understood everything I said in my moment of personal collapse last night.
Schultz rushing through into the bathroom. Turning on the shower over the tub. As the nozzle blasts off and hits him in the head. Following by scalding hot water. And a nearly neck breaking scramble to safety.
“What next. Jesus what next.”
Schultz dressed. A last peek in the bedroom. Greta one ankle sticking from under a sheet. And sprawled, her arms and legs flung out like she was being drawn and quartered. Her yellow hair splayed over the green and blue striped pillow. A breast peeking up pink and soft. And the long deep snores as she slept.
“Honey they may be fighting over you with knives but let me tell you it’s better than having a bunch of blackmailers at your throat.”
On a breezy sunny corner of Belgrave Square Schultz dabbing his face with a hanky and flagging a cab. Cutting himself twice trying to shave around his claw marks. And now jumping out of the elevator nearly catching and amputating four fingers as he slammed the expanding door closed. Rushing past Rebecca who followed behind him with a handful of letters, into the chairman’s office where a cavalry twill attired Binky sat with the newspaper, his open coat displaying a pink blue striped shirt, and a light blue polka dot tie.
“Ah Schultz I have been just trying to ring you. And was as usual answered in the customary fractured English. Those vague unhelpful expressions one expects at your end of the line. He gone no here.”
“Jesus Binky come on, I got work to do.”
“Schultz I should say you have. Everyone’s been on the phone nonstop to get you. Your property developing industrialist investor friend especially. Trying to get a personal urgent message to you.”
“He just can’t wait to put more money into the show, that’s all.”
“Agents are ringing about unsigned contracts for clients. And my god, Schultz. What. More scratches on the face. What ever do you do with yourself on your quiet London evenings. O and by the way your composing team residing at the Dorchester want a larger sitting room.”
“Jesus christ what else can fucking well go wrong with my life.”
His Lordship entering the office stepping out tiptoe from behind Rebecca.
“Good morning Schultz. I’ll tell you what else can go wrong. And it’s with my life. There’s been an absolute outcry to discontinue trains stopping at Nectarine Castle station. Several prominent members of the local county council who happened to be on that train we took claim that a member of my party gave them a sign signifying the word fuck you or sentiments distinctly similar.”
“Holy shit your Lordship. Hold it. One problem at a time. Let’s take the city problems first.”
“I’m sorry Schultz if I distress you.”
“Your Lordship you don’t distress me one bit. If everyone in this world did for me what you’ve so far done. My life would be one big fucking paradise believe me. Sorry Rebecca about the language.”
“That’s quite alright sir. But I have I’m afraid further difficult news.”
“What.”
“Mr. Magillacurdy’s Agent rang to say that Mr. Magillacurdy has received an offer from Hollywood to which he cannot say no.”
“Jesus. This really is my lucky day. The fucker. Says he has no agent. Now he’s got one. Who sta
rts right off trying to shake me down.”
“Ah Schultz, there is another matter.”
“Yeah Binky, just tell me don’t do dramatics with that up and down on the toes stuff.”
“I speak this most disturbing news flat footed I assure you. Our dear old chap Mr. Gayboy has, it appears, on this momentarily very sunny day, rented your theatre to another production.”
“He’s what.”
“Another production, Schultz, is booked in.”
“What. Just say that once more.”
“Another production is booked in.”
“I’ll kill the fucking cunt. I’ll fucking well kill him. Jesus christ, get out of my fucking way. I’m going right over there this fucking second and I’m going to kick his ass all over the West End of London.”
“Steady, my dear Schultz, steady. Gayboy will have you arrested. You may be sure everything he does is vetted by his numerous lawyers.”
“Lawyers. That fucker is going to need numerous undertakers.”
Schultz storming out the door. Down the hall. Into a secretary bearing two hot cups of coffee for her tall blond charming employers.
“Excuse me honey but I’m in a fucking hurry.”
Schultz in the soft mist capturing a taxi. Sitting upon the edge of his seat undoing his collar and tie. Leicester Square. Piccadilly Circus. Look at all these people thronging the West End with nothing better to do than buy tickets and go to my show. Maybe fucking Gayboy is a friend of Al’s and this could be a conspiracy.
Schultz jumping out of the taxi. Slapping a note in the driver’s hand.
“Keep the change.”
“Thanks Gov.”
Schultz stepping towards the curb. Holy canine shit, something soft under foot. Wipe some of it off as I go flying up these usefully carpeted stairs. Same sourpuss secretary reading the same novel she was reading last time. That’s right honey, take off your eyeglasses and jump to your feet as Schultz goes zooming by.
“Can I help you.”
“I’m going right the fuck in there.”
“Mr. Gayboy’s auditioning light is illuminated.”
“It’s going to be devastated when I’m fucking finished with him.”
Schultz striding along the hall to the door marked Private. Pushing, banging and finally pounding.
“Open this fucking thing.”
“Who is that.”
“It’s Sigmund Franz Schultz. That’s who.”
“Just one minute please.”
“You better be just one minute.”
Two minutes later. The door opening. Schultz charging in. Stopping center carpet, and hunched forward, raising a shaking fist. Gayboy behind his desk reaching for a cigar. A bosomy brunette in a finishing school pose with a script open across her lap, clearing her throat, brushing her hair back loose at her temple, an embroidered piece of white petticoat hanging lopsided down one curvaceously muscular leg.
“What’s the fucking idea you smug son of a bitch renting the theatre to another production.”
“By your abusive and threatening language Mr. Schultz, are you giving me cause to call the Police or my lawyers.”
“Call whomever you like, we had a deal and you’re going to fucking well stick to it.”
“At most we had a very informal gentleman’s understanding, my dear chap. And do mind your language.”
“I’m going to mind you boy and sue the shit out of you.”
“Mr. Schultz I do admire your nerve. Channelled in a proper direction it one day might get you somewhere but as it is, you are giving me and this young lady here offense. Now why don’t you just calm yourself down a moment. I have not, as it happens, rented to another production. But due to an unforseen large overhead recently incurred there’s been a thirty three and a third increase in the rent I shall require plus a commensurate improvement in the share of the gross.”
“Hey what is this, you not only want more fucking rent but you also want to hack an additional major weekly slice off my balls.”
“Well I wouldn’t use your precise imagery and adjectives Mr. Schultz, but that is about the summation of it. Two other productions at this moment want this theatre. They have no objections to the increase. Now it isn’t that I let money corrode the principles I most deeply cherish but.”
“You limey bastards can’t be trusted an inch.”
“Tell me Mr. Schultz, are you personally at war with England. Or is this the usual manner in which you conduct your business.”
“Both.”
“Well it’s not going to get you far. Let me tell you that.”
“Well let me tell how far it’s going to get you. Right through every court in this town. Up to the House of Lords if necessary.”
“O dear me. O dear.”
“I’ll give you ten per cent increase in rent.”
“Dear O dear. Now let me see. Here. Do. Yes do. Come on. Have a cigar. And sit down. Go on. Take it. Best Havana.”
“But no increase in the share of the gross.”
“Ah Mr. Schultz you’re not as untutored in our English ways as I thought. I see you use the penknife to make the Churchill cut on the slant. A good cigar gets more oxygen. Let me light you up. Now you know Mr. Schultz, although you exhibit behaviour totally alien to the true spirit of the theatre, I don’t think you’re such a bad sort. In view of the circumstances I’m being generous with you. I see your associates are shortly entering wedlock.”
“That’s right.”
“I assume you’ve not taken that step yet.”
“That’s right.”
“Plenty of time for a young man like you. Now I rather like some of these latter lyrics of your show. Hear rather encouraging things of the production. Mr. Magillacurdy a performer of whom it’s widely said that he will achieve the heights.”
“That’s right. Signed up.”
“Wouldn’t it be fairer to say Mr. Schultz that you hope to sign him.”
“He’s going to be signed don’t worry.”
“Now. In our little preliminary misunderstanding I haven’t had a chance to introduce Miss Sphincter.”
“How do you do Mr. Schultz.”
“Hi ya.”
“Miss Sphincter was recently runner up as Miss West Midlands. Talented singer and dancer. And as it happens, reading the script of your show.”
“Fifteen per increase in the rent, no increase in the share of the gross.”
“Perhaps you might consider auditioning Miss Sphincter.”
“Sure I’ll do better. Honey if you don’t fall on your face every two seconds I’ll guarantee a prominent position in the chorus.”
“Ah Mr. Schultz, that’s so sweet of you not to be averse to one’s little artistic contribution. Then let’s not argue, twenty per cent on rent, plus five on gross.”
“Argue. That’s highway robbery. Fifteen per cent on rent and two on gross. Take it or leave it.”
“I think unfortunately I shall leave it.”
“Goodbye.”
“Now wait a moment Mr. Schultz. Come back. Sit down. Why not be reasonable about this.”
“Sure, why not. Fifteen per cent on rent and two on gross.”
“You’re being most singularly stubborn.”
“That’s right.”
“I must say if it weren’t for Miss Sphincter here having an opportunity one would dismiss your counter proposal out of hand.”
“What. Holy Jesus christ almighty. The rent already and your cut of the gross is a fucking holdup.”
Schultz sweeping out with his clutched sheets of contract as the door closed on a pleased Miss West Midlands and Mr. Gayboy’s strangely smiling face. Guiding down the bannister to avoid tripping on the stairs. In a fresh smelling brand new taxi to diesel throb back through the late lunchtime street. Wiped my feet on his carpets. Like I was wiping them on his face. Poor son of a bitch had me by the balls and didn’t know it just as I kicked his.
Aromatic mouth watering smells in the door of Sperm Prod
uctions. The Italian chef and his assistant scurrying around his Lordship and Binky seated at table. Binky lifting a glass of wine to his lips.
“Ah, Schultz, just the man we want to see. Take a pew. Help us knock back a little late lunch. Mario’s specialty, oeuf mollet au ragout fin. His Royal Grace and I are engaged in a last minute discussion of honeymoon plans and how one might avoid those traditionally embarrassing bed chamber wretched first moments of laying hand to one’s dear brand new little wife trembling so with her schoolgirl modesty. Mario, do pop down another place for our loyal felow director, Mr. Schultz.”
“Of course sir.”
“I got calls to make.”
“Dear me, always business Schultz. Never a moment to relax.”
“Jesus we were all just relaxing. A whole weekend nonstop.”
“Ah but do tell us how did your little meeting with Gayboy go, Schultz.”
“That fucking cunt. Wanted thirty three and a third per cent increase in rent and five in gross. But naturellement I’m tough. I want my price. It was a battle of nerves. He was having a shit fit screaming and squirming as I stood right up and walked out. And he calls me back. Like the nice guy I suddenly decided to be I agreed to let him make a little artistic contribution to the show and to cast his gorgeous girl friend in the chorus. And in the end all he got was fifteen extra per cent on the rent and two on the gross.”
“Schultz.”
“And what can I do for you your Lordship.”
“Schultz, my god.”
“What’s the matter.”
“You’ve been had Schultz.”
“What the fuck do you mean.”
“Schultz, while you’ve been gone we have learned that as recently as three o’clock yesterday afternoon Gayboy who didn’t think you had any money, was offering another production a third reduction in rent and no gross at all.”