“I’ll be hysterical till the banks close at three o’clock and I don’t get the money to keep this production open.”
“Ah at four then. A little tea will be served. It’s rather in the way of a small intimate at home by myself away from home that I’m having.”
His Lordship appearing in the doorway. In a crumpled blue suit. His jacket open, tie loose at his collar. Flecks of mud on his shoes. Soup stains on his lapels, and blond hairy hairs curling on his belly exposed by two missing shirt buttons.
“Holy shit, at fucking long last. Jesus your Lordship, what’s wrong with talking to me on the phone. What took you so long away all these days. With me having kittens.”
“Schultz. If you must know. I’ve been buying cattle. And you. Never mind kittens, with all those handkies. Stand right where you are. Don’t come an inch further near me.”
“Why, what’s wrong. Have I got the oriental clap plague again.”
“You may have but I am more concerned with something much worse indicated by the look you are wearing.”
“What look.”
“Schultz you have the look of a man looking for money.”
“Holy shit. What gives you this idea.”
“The idea is given to me Schultz by the unmistakable expression on your face. And the overwhelming aura of desperation.”
“I’m not desperate.”
“You should be. As I think Schultz that shortly, if you are not extremely careful, you will take a slide down a very nasty slope indeed. Roxana has still not been found.”
“Holy jeeze, don’t look at me, your Lordship.”
“Don’t feign innocence Schultz. I prefer you looking desperate.”
“O.K. I am. I’m desperate. On my ass down the slope. Anything you say.”
“And what I say Schultz is close the production.”
“O Jesus, you don’t understand, there’s just a fraction of a gap left to reach the gross to keep the theatre.”
“Schultz that’s nonsense. The production account is at this moment overdrawn by six thousand seven hundred and eighty four pounds eighteen shillings and nine pence. By this time tomorrow it will be overdrawn by another thousand. Plus another fifty or sixty pounds while you, my dear Schultz, are living at the Dorchester.”
“Everybody else I guarantee, is now kicked out of there. But Jesus I got to live in dignity somewhere. It’s money, just money, you talk like it was flesh and blood or something.”
“I talk Schultz as the guarantor to the bank.”
“O.K. O.K. That’s what I mean. Everybody is already going to lose. And that’s exactly certain what’s going to happen if we close. Look what I’ve done already. Advance booking has quadrupled. Daily business has tripled, and building every second. From nothing, from disaster.”
“Schultz stop eating your fingers off. And wearing the carpet out. And also writing your anti blood sports letters.”
“Your Lordship my lips are sealed forever. I’m behind foxhunting one hundred per cent from now on. I’ll even go further. You put up enough money to buy enough seats to cover the show and I swear I’ll get myself rigged out on a fucking horse and go foxhunting with you.”
“Done.”
“Holy shit, your Lordship, what are you saying.”
“I said done.”
“You really fucking mean it.”
“Schultz you are a circus.”
“I’m anything you say your Lordship. But please. No jokes. Jesus you mean it.”
“Schultz I said, done. For the third time.”
“O.K. O.K. I’m on my way right now to get riding lessons and have a pink coat made. Hot diggity dog, Jesus you bastard I could kiss you.”
“Schultz please don’t. And for the time being it will have to be a black coat you must wear hunting. And if you would wipe that hot diggity dog look off your face, someone is not only going to have to go to the bank with a satchel but someone is also going to have to go and buy tickets.’
“I’ve got him. His name’s Padio O’Kelly and he’s waiting right in the next room.”
“Schultz you really are a flying circus aren’t you.”
“Holy cow, now begins what I hope is the last horror.”
“Yes Schultz, because if you get caught doing this, it’s fraud.”
“What’s fraud about buying complimentary seats and keeping the theatre alive and kicking and actors, musicians and dancers in jobs.”
“It could be construed Schultz that it is a conspiracy to breach a contract.”
Binky lighting up a cigar. His chin raised and eye lashes fluttering, beaming one of his best smiles.
“Ah my lords and esquires. Do permit me as chairman to suggest blaming it all on the author. Or is there one who wrote the wretched silly book in the first place.”
“Binky no one’s getting blame, except me. Only I’m going to deny it.”
“Ah Schultz once more, you rekindle in me my admiration for the forthright human spirit embodied in you.”
“That’s right Binky. I’m never again pleading guilty to anything to be clapped in jail.”
His Lordship scribbling out a cheque. Handing it across to Schultz whose trembling fingers held the watermark up to the light.
“Ah Schultz, you’re wondering if it will bounce, are you.”
“No your Lordship. I’m wondering about just one little magic word Nectarine. Written at the bottom of this little piece of paper. Which can mean so much in the saving of my entire life.”
Schultz and Binky striding at this strange precise time of two p.m. when little is happening along Piccadilly. The rear taken up by a newly jaunty confident Padio O’Kelly. This rotund faced gent met in Curzon Street. Following Schultz and Binky into this Byzantine interior. Domed ceiling, deep rose pillars. A table with newspapers and elegant chairs.
“Holy christ what a bank.”
“Yes Schultz long patronized by his R.G. One may sit there reading while they, the chaps go fuss about his Lordship’s little business. Rather nice. I keep a modest little account here myself. The concierge there when requested keeps out awful people who might have been following one. Note how quickly he enquired of your Mr. O’Kelly‘s business.”
The teller stacking notes, pushing them out to Binky who laid them in the attaché case. The threesome hurriedly heading back to the office of Sperm Productions.”
“Come on gang. Let’s go. Fight. Fight.”
“Do shut up Schultz. This costly business is bad enough without your thinking you’re in the middle of an American football game.”
His Lordship sitting like a paymaster behind the chairman’s desk. The sun shining on the stacks and Stacks of bank notes. Rebecca, Schultz and Padio, heading out in relays, buying batches of tickets at the box office and booking agencies. Schultz as the last pounds had gone, standing looking at his Lordship in his shirt sleeves.
“And Schultz now what is on that scheming mind of yours.”
“Your Lordship you have turned into a fucking gem. Jesus you son of a bitch, you really are a fucking fighter once you fight. Christ it went just like a military operation. You even caught that bastard barrow boy trying to screw us out of three hundred quid. God bless the aristocracy. I take everything back I ever thought against them.”
“I’m sure Schultz, the aristocracy will be extremely pleased to hear that.”
Binky at the door. Peeking in on tiptoe. Tapping his finger tips together. A pink carnation in his buttonhole.
“Ah what a nice calm little scene. And Schultz, I’ve come to collect you my dear, Tobias with my car is waiting.”
“And you Binky, where the fuck were you, why didn’t you help us.”
“Dear me, I must keep up standards Schultz. The Chairman of this charming firm must not ever be seen doing the dirty. And looking at my watch Schultz, soon time now for our little seance with my fortune teller, we shall be late if you don’t join me immediately. I shouldn’t like to, as my old uncle did Schultz, who horrified by th
e imperfection in one of his gilt ormolu sixteenth century clocks which was four minutes slow, took his afternoon walking stick to it.”
The hallway ministrations of Rebecca as she brushed the back of Binky’s black cape. Straightening his tie, refixing his carnation and handing him his brolly and bowler. Jesus it’s fucking pleasant for a change to see that women can be a help sometimes. At least that girl is making steady progress into Binky’s life. And I wish her every bit of luck, with all the odds against her. A girl you could depend on if your ass got permanently smashed.
Sun behind clouds. Darkening grey sky. Drops of rain sparkling on the limousine as Schultz and Binky motored in the direction of deepest Mayfair. Binky frowningly listening, now stuck in a Brewer Street traffic jam, to Schultz’s latest recriminations against womankind.
“You really should Schultz try homosexuality. It would I’m sure keep you from these awful complications in your life. O dear, London citizens do, don’t they, get in such a tizzy for taxis when it rains, jamming up the roadway. And making an awful nuisance of themselves.”
“Hey Binky why the fuck don’t you or your Lordship try a little poofta life.”
“Ah Schultz my tastes have already taken me in other directions. And his Royal Grace has a rather strong but I think ill founded antipathy towards queers. I do think they supremely and much annoyed him as a beautiful young man. Indeed when he played cricket for the university side there were a whole section of them collected chanting and cheering each time his Royal Grace knocked it for six. Lord Nec tarine is supreme, is what they shouted as a matter of fact. Some of the more blatantly cheeky devils even held up signs. We love Basil. The legend Lord Nectarine is a homosexual was chalked up on many a college wall. The latter alas done by my own hand. I rather enjoyed to see his expression of annoyance as we strolled the college quads together.”
Stopping and alighting on this Mayfair pavement. Black railings along by these red brick town houses. Binky waited till his car had departed. Walking a few paces and turning through a gate. Out into a little spot of greenery. Crossing this tiny park and stepping over the street and turning the corner into a cul de sac.
“You see Schultz one must be discreet about certain locations in one’s life.”
Schultz following Binky in a door. Up three flights of stairs to a cozy sumptuous flat. Through a hall into a large room with fur covered sofas, pillows piled everywhere. Curtains drawn on the windows. Smell of incense.
“Ah now Schultz we’re a little late but now do beseat yourself comfortably.”
Binky pressing a button. The wall at one end of this large drawing room parting in sliding doors, revealing a small proscenium stage.
“Holy shit, Binky.”
“Now Schultz, never mind holy shit. You did in your anti blood sports letter neglect to say that foxes are part of a national heritage and not the preserve of a minority. Of course as a foxhunting man myself. One would naturally reply that do anti blood sport bods also claim so in respect of the earthworms in their gardens. Please, Schultz, don’t stand up like a sore thumb, sit down. One would think you’d never been in a theatre before. Try over there on a nice chinchilla sofa. Tea will presently be served by nanny. And shortly the show will begin.”
Schultz sitting down. Binky tinkering at a camera on a tripod. A smiling grey haired uniformed elderly lady entering with tea. As she exited, a buzzer sounding. Lights of room dimming. And a splash of illumination on stage. Sound of a Viennese waltz. The scenery, a thatched country cottage. Clouds passing overhead and smoke coming from the chimney. A field of clover in the foreground. Two masked young ladies in pinafores carrying milk buckets entering on stage. Gamboling playfully back and forth. Raising a spot of dust. Schultz sneezing into one of his silk handkerchiefs. The young ladies putting down their pails and slowly tantalisingly undressing each other. Till they fell naked to the floor, writhing in passionate ecstasy. Schultz sneezing again. Binky abandoning his tea cup and saucer. Standing at a tripod clicking a camera. Frowning as he manoeuvred to get the more difficult shots. Schultz at the final curtain standing to applaud.
“Jesus christ Binky, bravo what a show.”
“Of course for the sake of frolicsome jollies, one is at certain miserable times an occasional pervert, Schultz. That is not to say that one’s life is a shambles of debauchery. And it gives some of our lazier London girls something to do in the afternoons. Had I known Schultz that you were as deeply interested as you are in viewing the female in rapture. I should have invited you long before.”
“Binky I’m flabbergasted. This is really high quality this little set up of yours. Real clouds. Real god damn smoke coming out of the chimney.”
“Do you really think so Schultz. This is what I like to call my little theatre in the home.”
“Jesus the fucking lighting and sound is god damn magic.”
“Do you really think so. Ah Schultz you are a charmer you know, just when one’s spirit needs a lift you come suddenly to the rescue. I was so worried about the standard of lighting. Especially dealing with black and white contrasts. I occasionally have had big black men come to perform with the girls. Alas the former developed the bad habit of stealing backstage valuables.”
“Christ you fucker, you have everything, everything at your feet.”
“Not quite Schultz, the stage is at knee level. But Schultz it’s fun to have a little spare money. Of course there are those who simply don’t know what to do with it, when indeed it can be so useful to one who has, by a lifelong training been taught how and how not to spend it.”
“The sumptuous luxury, the scones, the cake.”
“Ah Schultz happily along with his Royal Grace, one does also try to avoid that dastardly English habit to entertain on the cheap.”
“Where did you get that girl in the mask.”
“Ah Schultz her breasts are a little perhaps on the large side.”
“They may be but this is one guy in the audience who is going wild over them.”
“Yes Schultz, I think we must settle for the word delicious for her.”
“Jesus I feel I almost know a fucking girl who nearly has a body as beautiful just like that. Only all I could do was just feel it, I never saw it. Holy shit, what have I said. All the while I’m watching I’m wracking my brains. That’s fucking Agnes. Agnes for christ’s sake.”
“Schultz, are you alright.”
“Holy christ what’s going on here in London. I got to go see her.”
“Strict rule we have Schultz, the audience is not permitted backstage.”
Binky touring Schultz in and about the various erotica on tables and on walls and encased in vellum. Schultz now instead of being relaxed, was hopping, skipping and jumping all over the place. And now strolling with Binky through Mayfair on the way to the Dorchester, Schultz was slapping his forehead again and again.
“Where the fuck did you get that girl Binky.”
“Ah the one you call Agnes who has given you apoplexy. Well as a matter of fact I have a rather elegant little Greek friend who does my casting. One doesn’t normally enquire too closely into such things. But she I believe, Schultz, was found at one of those dinner parties at which, if one is not careful at introduction time, one might miss all the prime ministers and heads of state.”
“Jesus Binky that was my wife’s best friend.”
“You don’t say. But how nice Schultz. Perhaps the little wife Schultz. Surely she too might fancy a little spare time activity. Top prices paid you know.”
“Binky, you know, you guys really do take the cake. The marvellous god damn way you got life arranged. To think I missed all this kind of culture growing up in a backward place like America. Jesus, again, why wasn’t I born with such good fortune like you guys.”
“Ah you Americans Schultz, are sometimes so full of shit. You really are. Wanting the way you do to contribute something to the benefit of mankind, instead of, as we British do, donning our straw boaters and popping off at mid morning to Hen
ley to watch the chaps do their very best stroking their oars over the water but you’re forgetting Schultz, that a dog once ate my cake.”
“O christ, yeah, forgive me, Jesus I forgot the tragedies you have to put up with.”
“And Schultz as we stroll along this civilized Mayfair Avenue, let me tell you I had one yesterday. My chauffeur Tobias was attending a relative’s funeral, as he often does every couple of weeks. And I actually decided to descend into the underground thinking I might take the tube from Green Park to Knightsbridge. There I was, a hundred feet down in the murky neon lit shadows. On a bench minding my own saucy business of watching the better legs passing. When this chap in a blue overall and pail of glue and brush came by putting up posters. One which he proceeded to affix right over my shoulder without so much as a by your leave. The blessed glue was dripping and flicking from his brush as he took out one of his folded posters. Believe it or not, it was for Kiss It, Don’t Hold It, It’s Too Hot. I was most impressed. Stunned in fact. A train was just pulling in. Yet I just sat. Couldn’t wait to see it resplendent there on the underground tunnel wall. Well upon my word, there this chap was, carelessly splashing and slapping it up over another poster. I said most politely, please do mind your sloppy brushstrokes and drips my good man. Well he absolutely ignored me and continued. I glared at him. He dipped his brush rather deeply I thought, back into his pail of glue. And I sat there waiting for his apology, the train now just ready to pull out of the station, the chap wielded his brush as if he had a fish by the tail. Immersing me across the countenance in a single brushstroke. He then jumped on the train just as the doors were closing.”
“Holy shit Binky I can’t walk another inch.”
“Schultz this is the first laughter one has heard from you in a long time. I knew my little story would make you happy. Dear me, Schultz one must suppose that a successful life is one in which one’s enemies who enjoyed laughing at one’s misfortune, have all preceded one to the grave leading one with no such enemies left to take their place. But I did stand and look at the poster. And Schultz I thought of you. The splendid battle you were fighting. And especially the brazen billing. Sigmund Franz Schultz in large letters followed by our firm’s title in a print size one could hardly read. But Schultz, before you scream it was a printer’s error, let me tell you what happened to me when I got off the train. Rising upwards on the escalator I was feeling quite miserable. Stinking of glue. Wondering how one would tell such a tale to the little wife. Then stepping back out onto a Knightsbridge street, thinking well, at least in this respectable part of town one is safe from further insult. Then there, just yards away, was a chap. Standing right on the border between Brompton and Belgravia and the chap suspiciously looking like a barrister in cutaway coat and striped trousers. He was stamping the end of his brolly on the pavement, with his bowler listing on his head. Shouting at the top of his lungs. That what a bloody diabolical outrage it was, going on in this country, no one giving a damn, an absolutely bloody disgrace, country in a bloody mess. Naturally in the aggrieved state I was in, these were words that I stopped immediately to hear. I really don’t know what overcame me. I’m usually most shy of others, especially just having had my face slapped with a paint brush full of glue. But summoning up my courage I went straight up to this chap and offered to shake his hand. Just to let him know how awfully good his sentiments sounded. Well he, without even taking my proffered paw said, well what sir, are you doing about it. Dear me I must confess I was utterly speechless. The only thing that crossed my mind was my small improvement program recently introduced to the household to raise the standard of butlering. Somehow I knew if I had mentioned this to the chap, that he might have considered it most lightweight. Plus I think my face was slightly glue frozen in an expression of amazed horror. Then he shouted and stamped his brolly once more. And my goodness so many people had stopped to watch across the street. As he shouted directly at me. Grave matters sir, are being perpetrated in the Houses of Parliament with the acquiescence of silly nits like you. Silly nit he called me. I fear I rather withdrew. Of course had I said that good butlers were hard to get these days, it would I’m sure have led to instant further ridicule of me.”