“But Schultz you do at times quite surprisingly exhibit characteristics one usually only associates with the more refined of the American educated classes.”
“Bullshit.”
“Indeed I do believe his Royal Grace happened upon you in the middle of the most authentic la de da accent. Is that not true your Royal Esteem.”
“And hey for christ’s sake your Lordship you ruined the most important phone call of my life.”
His Lordship, as he so often was at this time of day, was seated on the chaise longue, leaning forward over a bowl full of gull’s eggs, peeling these one by one and anointing each faintly blue spherical whiteness with the tiniest sprinkle of celery salt. And it was not often that he would pause between bites of this sacred seasonal delicacy to raise his voice as he did now to Schultz.
“Schultz you won’t have a life if you ever do that ever again.”
“Just once I was doing it. An isolated incident.”
“Schultz your behaviour is, if I may say so, absolutely saturated with these isolated incidents.”
While Binky rather enjoyed recognising Schultz’s more gracious tendencies, he also loved embellishing Schultz’s background with remarks to the effect that Schultz’s folk were in textiles in a very big tycoonish way on the American East Coast.
“Of course Schultz we do in fact know that all the fine silk shirts you wear are afforded because you are the scion of a great textile dynasty with massive sprawling factories throbbing out household linens sold the world over. And we are only left to wonder why you don’t heavily invest in your own sure fire hit shows. Especially this, your latest, and I am sure your most promising. Even the title, Too Too Naughty And Not One Bit Nice, reverberates with the promise of massive gross box office returns.”
“And you can fucking well bet on that too. I’m going to sock the cunts right out of their fucking seats.”
“Did you hear that your Royal Grace. Are we to assume from these vulgar but fighting words here uttered before us by Schultz that he at last has a hit. And take out our cheque books. In spite of the fact that we know he could finance the show himself.”
It had been to this rumour of Schultz’s massive riches, spread by Binky in show business circles, that Schultz owed his early marriage. His future wife having first got wind of him while working under the title of musical co-ordinator in the employ of a prominent showbizz personality who enjoyed to call at Sperm Productions and sit about baring his innermost feelings.
“Is that bad that I don’t want to hurt people. Tell me if that’s bad. That I should hold the human race in high regard.”
While he was rather unaristocratically referred to as Big Al Duke, the celebrities’ celebrity, Big Al was also an outstanding jazz trombonist and composer who occasionally gave recitals on the concert stage. And he also took up and generously contributed to a bevy of charitable causes. Nor was he ever known to refuse help to those eager to step up the slippery ladders of showbizz into the big time.
“Go ahead just ask. What can I do for you.”
And Schultz, who seemed ripe for just such promotion, always at least pretended to appreciate this older man’s sincere counsel, help and heartfelt advice. Which Big Al dispensed freely, especially following attending rehearsals. And which advice, due to Al’s deep artistic convictions, invariably possessed one unerring characteristic. It was always wrong.
“Now Sigmund, I’m telling you the show needs less hoofing and more heart. It needs truth. Fine to have love lyrics but the secret of life needs to throb in every dance step. People these days want the truth along with their entertainment.”
Big Al, who in juggling his many musical projects was a busy man. He especially had a large turnover of staff with whom he nevertheless frequently made good friends. Which included many of the young female temporary shorthand typists penetrating his portals. In each case fatherly making sure that they did not take the lecherous plunge into the pool of lust swum in by showbizz folk without holding Al’s hand. But Big Al when his love life was under particular pressure did make exceptions for the rare girl of unresistible beauty. And in such cases would allow her to stretch her morals in reach of a more permanent place in the glamourised world of showbizz.
“Honey, a girl like you should have the world at your feet. Please, let me put it there for you.”
Most listened avidly to Big Al, and invariably, in order to get right away started screwing their way to the top, were eager to be promptly propositioned. Which Big Al did with his carefully chosen four standard words which could easily upon acceptance be further embellished with, from behind, in front, by the mouth, ear throat or between the tonsils.
“May I enter you.”
Although pushing unflatteringly beyond middle age, Big Al was in fact with his practised musical lips, his broad shoulders, his trim athletic figure and gruff voice, a charmer. And he took rejection good naturedly when Schultz’s future wife, a stunning dark long haired beauty blushingly would not let Big Al, the celebrities’ celebrity, enter her neither by ear nose throat rear or front.
“Look I’m too old for you. Right. O.K. Right. Then I know just the right sort of guy for you honey. And I really know, baby, that you’re just going to love this guy. So you don’t mind if he’s wealthy do you. He’s also a real hard hitting go getting young impresario making it right up the ladder to the top of his profession. He’s going to be the guy wearing the laurel leaf honey.
“You mean laurel wreath.”
“Yeah honey, I mean laurel wreath.”
On the spot Big Al picked up his telephone. As Schultz’s future wife’s ears really perked up at the further mention of this suede chukka booted debonair theatre producer, scion of one of the most momentously rich textile families in the United States, who was, according to Big Al, ensconced momentarily lonely and footloose rambling around his little old town house mansion. Which happened to be nicely situated right smack bang just around one of the best corners of ambassadorially elegant Belgrave Square and was described by the estate agents leasing it, as a superb sumptuously fitted period house in immaculate order. And on his Lordship’s initial visit, Schultz stood waiting ready for a stream of superlatives.
“You know Schultz after seeing this extremely pretentious residence of yours located in this rather self conscious area, I think you are an even bigger imposter than ever.”
His Lordship having just handed Schultz a cigarette was standing at the foot of the main stairs in the imposing entrance hall, off which there was a fourteenth century panelled drawing room, dining room and library. The house, which stood elevated three floors over a basement, was full of mellow hued antiques, crystal chandeliers and for the previous three months had been pervaded by an awful stench.
“It’s no big deal, I got it on a short lease for christ’s sake. An underground river was flooding the house’s foundations with sewerage. And now the fuckers are trying to raise the rent because the County Council found the broken pipe. These are the first few fragrant days I’ve had.”
“And ah, what have you got back there Schultz, exiting down into the basement.”
His Lordship’s eye had caught amused and appreciative sight of a honey blond beauty who was slipping quietly out of the library and was now scurrying from the hall down the servants’ stairs.
“That isn’t anybody. Come on. I’ll show you around.”
“By god Schultz who was that. It looked to me like a very nice little bit of all right. You’re a crafty one aren’t you Schultz.”
His Lordship was very quickly taking a deeper interest in the dispositions of Schultz’s household. The bit of all right he had enquired after was an amply curvaceous Dutch au pair girl who having deserted her employers, had the past two weeks been cooking cleaning and submitting her body to Schultz’s not inconsiderable passions. But she had just that previous evening been given the message to vacate. And was now spending most of her time in tears. And the previous night had been locked down the basement.
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“Now Schultz, what are you up to. Clearly that young lady did not appear to be at all happy.”
“Holy shit don’t remind me.”
Schultz had met the poor creature in the big modern art gallery on the Thames embankment. Having rushed there in a taxi one Sunday afternoon upon the suggestion of a playwright whose script Schultz was considering. This helpful gentleman eagerly maintaining it was where one could with the snap of a finger pick up the best fluff and crumpet on the hoof in all of London.
“I hope to christ you’re not kidding me. I’m really hard up.”
And on that particular sabbath an insanely horny Schultz ran leaping up the massive stone front steps three at a time to stride in the entrance beneath the enormous pillars and sweep through room after room ignoring these great modern masterpieces and rapidly sizing up the prospects of any unaccompanied innocent female art lover. All of whom recoiled in horror as he made his blatant shoulder tapping overtures.
“How dare you ask me if I should like to come outside for a walk. Certainly not.”
And one refined marvellously legged, tweed suited lady, as she rapidly removed herself out of Schultz’s accosting distance, made motions to call for protection of the curator. Who luckily for Schultz was absent, as indeed together with his wide artistic knowledge, this elegant gentleman also happened to be not unhandy with his fists.
“Jesus madam, there’s nothing to get upset about. I really thought you were someone else.”
It was not till Schultz was desolately leaving at closing time, having thoroughly terrorized half the gallery, that his eyes latched on to a blond slenderly buxom sandaled girl standing alone across the street in the pink afternoon sunshine with her back leaning against the flood wall along the Thames. Through screeching brakes and swerving tyres, Schultz dashed over the road.
“Pardon me baby, are you waiting for anybody.”
Some of Schultz’s brash approach to women could be attributed to his later teenage life in Brooklyn, where temporarily he lived with his Uncle Werb. When girl members of street gangs seemed to prefer being swept off their feet with a sudden tug on the blouse. Plus too, the occasional implacable rebuff Schultz received from the odd lady professionally close at hand. One of which was the gaily attractive Rebecca, Sperm Productions’ most comely secretary, whom Schultz in the nearby presence of his Lordship had with a blatant hallway overture once invited to Fortnum’s for tea.
“Schultz no one could ever accuse you of being overly romantic in your approach.”
Such was his Lordship’s opinion having on this occasion just witnessed Schultz’s stopping Rebecca in her tracks and sidestepping to block her way as she attempted to sidestep around him. But Schultz promptly replied with his eminently practical excuse.
“I’m in a god damn hurry and if there was time to waste with beautiful endearing words I’d waste it.”
And in this case of the young lady standing so marvellously slender legged in the sunshine across from this famed gallery of art, Schultz wasted not a second. Although she could barely manage to speak English, and Schultz’s Dutch was meagre, they did by instant sign language and constant toothy smiles talk long enough for Schultz to have her packed into a taxi and back in bed in Belgravia in no time. The only difficulty being the girl’s considerable hesitation in the obvious elegance of Schultz’s life, to remove her dress and reveal the sorry state of her tattered underwear. And following a long hard night of lust, Schultz caught sight of her dressing in the morning.
“Hey holy shit honey here’s few quid, go out and buy yourself something decent.”
Somehow blue eyed Greta understood these words better than she did Schultz’s sign language. She also brought back dusters and a washing up mop. Not of course remotely realising that Schultz got really nervous not to say hysterical at the least signs of domesticity. However, the girl’s jumping to action each morning at Schultz’s first eye opening and then laying an appetizing laden breakfast tray and newspaper in front of him, made him delay issuing walking papers. But when she sat contentedly darning holes in his socks until three a.m. one morning, Schultz lost control.
“Hey what the fuck are you doing, darning my socks, and always cleaning and dusting. Why don’t you go out to the movies once in a while.”
He was at this crucial point and on a sombre London Sunday afternoon with Schultz still in his pyjamas while enjoyably perusing a vicar and choirboy scandal in a Sunday newspaper, that a fatal never to be forgotten moment came. At precisely the toll of Big Ben booming four o’clock. Reverberating out westerly across the quiet empty streets of Westminster. Over the Royal residence of the Sovereign. And beyond the roof tops of the once great old mansions of England’s once great rich. And right to the white painted elevation of Schultz’s town house in Belgravia. This venerable bell knelled. As Schultz bounded down the stairs to the ringing telephone.
“Hey that you Sigmund. It’s me Al.”
“Hi Big Al. What’s new.”
“Sigmund. Let me tell you.”
“Sure.”
“Sigmund she’s standing here. Right next to me. She is so beautiful it hurts. I’ve tried everything, haven’t I honey. To enter you. And Sigmund she’s turned me down flat. Now I told her. O.K. so you don’t want to fool around with these old guys. I’m thirty four minus my four years I got for good behaviour. But still I’m too ancient. So I got a nice young guy for you. Twenty one. Right. You listening Sigmund.”
“I’m pushing thirty and feel like I’m pushing forty but I’m listening Al.”
“She’s gorgeous. Really gorgeous. So I’m sending her over. If I was just ten years younger I wouldn’t do it. I’d keep fighting. Now you treat her right. She’s a good girl. And she’s a real lady.”
“Hey Al for christ’s sake wait a minute. Thanks a lot but I got a surplus supply already here right down in the basement.”
“Sigmund. Have I ever lied to you.”
“No.”
“Well I’m going to repeat for you just once more. She is the most lovely creature who has ever put foot over my threshold. So don’t make me say it again.”
“Send her over Al, for christ’s sake, but not till Wednesday.”
“It’s got to be right now Sigmund.”
“Now, Jesus, what’s the hurry.”
“The hurry is her gorgeous beauty. Before someone else discovers it. So let me ask her first. Hey honey you want to go over right away. She’s thinking about it Sigmund.”
“Well tell her to fucks sake make up her mind. I already got a job trying to kick this au pair out and after what I’ve been going through, my prick’s not exactly knocking the plaster out of the wall.”
“She says O.K. Sigmund. And I’m putting her straight in a taxi. Now you treat her right. Remember she still works for me. You got that.”
“Got it Al.”
Locking the Dutch au pair in the basement with a whole new batch of holey socks, Schultz tore off his dressing gown as he rushed up three steps at a time to his bathroom to shave, shower and dress. When the taxi let the promised gorgeous creature out, Schultz was at his front bedroom window watching the jet black Ambassador across the street board his black chauffeured limousine in his best striped bow tie. And Schultz could see nothing of her under her wide brimmed deep purple head gear.
“Jesus christ almighty she’s dressed like she’s going to a funeral.”
Checking to see his fly was closed, Schultz rushed down two steps at a time to let this female person smilingly in. She was not exactly what Schultz had expected. Dressed as she was in shiny black high heels, a black suit, frills on her purple blouse front and her hat big enough for Ascot. But with her face framed with black gleaming wavy hair to her shoulders and the most amazing large green almond eyes set in the softest creamiest skin, she was as Big Al had said, really gorgeous.
“I’m Sigmund Schultz, come on in.”
“I’m Pricilla and I’ve heard so much about you.”
Schultz
sat her on the edge of the just barely discernibly imitation reproduction Louis the Fifteenth gilt wood chair in his panelled drawing room. Her nice round knees held together carefully under her skirt and her long pleasant curvaceous legs leaning and overlapping to the side.
“This is a very nice place you have here, Mr. Schultz.”
“Well it’s just a kind of temporary convenience to rattle around in.”
“I think it’s very very nice.”
“Let me get you something to drink.”
“Well just something like a mineral water please.”
“Sure.”
Schultz who did not dare to unlock the door to the basement kitchen gave this increasingly gorgeous looking creature a sulfurously stale orange flavoured drink fetched out of the dining room cupboard. Which solitary bottle astonishingly had not been overlooked by the owners in their long itemised list of furnishings. Plus one dare not go down into the kitchen for fresher stuff where, while sewing her fingers to the bone, the poor Dutch au pair was also sobbing in despair.
“I especially Mr. Schultz, like your decor and objets d’art.”
“Well it serves the purpose I guess.”
“No I really like it. But isn’t this awfully big, this house for just one person.”
This was this gorgeous creature’s remark as she looked up from her poisonous drink and at the mellow illuminated panelling. And Schultz catching his breath at the swellings as her jacket opened, took her on a brief tour of the library and dining room, where her appreciative attitude continued. Schultz reassured when she stopped to glance at four icons which were genuine, having been bequeathed to Schultz by his mother’s grandfather who had brought them to Woonsocket from Prague.
“I do honestly like the old atmosphere.”
They went that evening to dine at the Savoy. Arriving sheltered from the rain, under this hotel’s gleaming blue and green neon lighted entrance. Ushered across the soft carpeted spaciousness. To a table where, as the lights of tugboats passed on the river, Schultz discovered this stunning dish had an equally stunning and expensive appetite.