Love, Let Me Not Hunger (30 page)

The first impression that overwhelmed Mr. Albert was that he had entered either a madhouse or a nightmare. Neither of these was so, although Hogarth might have found a touch of bedlam in the scene and Goya one of the
cauchemars
he so frequently brought to life upon his canvases. It was merely that Mr. Albert in stepping over the threshold had gone back four hundred years. The Marquesa de Pozoblanco, in the full swing of her morning toilet, attended by maids, wardrobe mistresses, and hairdressers, was holding audience in the manner in which royalty in times past had conducted the levee.

It was well indeed that the major-domo had warned him to display neither shock nor surprise, but even so it was too much and too immediately bewildering for the old man to take in, absorb, and much less, understand, and so he simply removed his hat holding it over his narrow breastbone with both hands, opened his mouth, and gaped over his spectacles.

He saw the Marquesa standing at one side of the room in a black satin gown stiffly encrusted with sequins and lace, but the Marquesa had no head. Over at a mother-of-pearl dressing table he saw a hairdresser attending her black head of hair, a formidable affair of curls and braids rising tier upon tier, topped by an exquisite Spanish tortoise-shell comb, only beneath the hair was no face. At the far end of the room on a chaise longue beneath a weird and enormous painting of strange, thin men with long, thin faces, thin bodies, and hands, all cream or pea-green in colour, he saw what appeared to be the figure of an all-in wrestler in white silk cami-knickers that came above the knees and a white silk dressing coat. The skull of this all-in wrestler had no hair. It was as bald as an egg.

Mr. Albert’s senses were further confused by the decor of the room. The walls were covered with grey silk which was also draped to the ceiling in the form of a canopy, and from there hung a glittering chandelier composed of thousands of pendent crystals which tinkled faintly, reflecting light from many tiny electric bulbs. Against the background of the grey were pots filled with pale pink hydrangeas, and there was much gold in evidence—in the chairs, tables, and the pelmets of the curtains.

The room was crowded; there must have been more than a dozen people. There was a pastry cook in an extraordinay tall white chef’s hat that would seem to reach almost to the bottom crystals of the great chandelier; several women with sample books of materials; men with suitcases and boxes; a young boy with a folder of drawings; two seedy-looking fellows, one with a dachshund puppy, the other with a Siamese kitten in his arms.

Mr. Albert saw that the major-domo was motioning him to come out of the doorway where he had been standing, transfixed, and breaking into his circus ring gallumphing movement, he leaped over to the side of the boudoir near where the men were with the animals for sale. At least the puppy and the kitten were real, and wherever there were animals he felt himself somewhat more comfortable.

There, out of the way, he continued to be immersed in this never-to-be-ending dream, except that a few of the preliminary horrors were dispelled and some order obtained out of the first chaos that had assailed his eyes. The headless woman became merely the dress upon a dressmaker’s dummy that the Marquesa would don. The faceless head was the wig into which she would fit later and to which now the hairdresser, undisturbed, was applying the finishing touches. And the egg-bald, all-in wrestler upon the couch was the Marquesa herself.

A cosmetician holding a miniature palette—like that of a painter—in one hand, on which there was a blob of what looked like liquid gold, and the finest and most delicate of camel’s-hair brushes in the other, was painting her eyelids; a manicurist held one hand and applied gold from a bottle to her long fingernails; a pedicurist at her feet with infinite care worked back the skin from her toenails and prepared likewise to gild them. The air of the room was heavy with scent, the base of which was musk and ambergris, but there were many other fragrances from powders and lotions, creams and perfumes. Off to one side on a table her jewellery was laid out for her choice. That day it was only diamonds and rubies.

The painter added one final, tiny touch of gold to the top of a lid and stepped back to regard his work, nodded, satisfied, murmured something and prepared to put away his palette. The Marquesa opened her eyes and their translucent green now glittered from beneath the metallic sheen. A maid stood before her holding a large and gloriously enamelled oval mirror. The Marquesa regarded herself for an instant and nodded.

Mr. Albert saw the major-domo step over to her side, bend over, and whisper something in her ear and guessed that she was being informed of his presence. And his heart beat with fright until he saw that she had given an almost imperceptible affirmative movement of her head.

All this time there was a babble of sound and conversation filling the room, over which occasionally were heard the shrieks of a pair of rose-pink cockatoos on a golden perch. And behind the Marquesa, dominating the silken luxury of the room, was the ceiling-high painting of the thin people, something that Mr. Albert gathered had to do perhaps with the descent from the Cross, for there was a Christ figure at the centre of the canvas which swirled with angels and cherubs and sorrowing madonnas, and Spanish grandees with spade beards and mournful cloaks, with saints and monks and robed priests. He had no way of knowing, of course, that this was an El Greco.

Nor would Mr. Albert have understood the explanation of what puzzled him, though in obedience to the admonition of the major-domo he struggled successfully to conceal his shock, namely that a great and noble lady who chose to conduct her life in this manner should reveal herself to all and sundry in her underclothes. How could she let them see her in all the grotesqueness of her deshabille: the gross, billowing body, the nude head, and the polyp mouth which was now being outlined by the same cosmetician who had exchanged his golden palette for one of crimson and was painting her lips with the same exquisite delicacy and artistry that he had expended upon her eyelids, stepping back every so often with squinting eyes to judge the effect, executing, in fact, a living portrait. Mr. Albert would neither have fathomed nor cared for the explanation that none of those in the room—the tradesmen, the attendants, the supplicants, or the servants—existed for her as human beings. They were to her no more than the cockatoos or the two snow-white Pekinese who slept curled upon pink cushions at her feet. She would, had she felt like it, as easily have exhibited herself nude before them as she would before her dogs. It was this aspect of the sixteenth century that Mr. Albert would never quite have understood, or that among her own kind the Marquesa would have reddened with shame if so much as a millimetre of lace should have shown beneath her voluminous skirt, or the handkerchief guarding her bosom had revealed a fraction too much flesh.

Yet throughout these ministrations things were happening: appeals were being answered, goods decided upon, business was being transacted. At a signal from the major-domo, who ran the levee as deftly as any film director and kept it moving, applicants stepped forward, presented themselves, and stated their business. The pastry chef departed with his orders for the day. A housekeeper with an enormous bunch of keys hanging from her waist, which jangled musically when she bobbed, listened likewise to her mistress’s wishes. The voice of the Marquesa had the harsh, nasal roughness of Spanish women. The two men carrying the puppy and Siamese kitten were next. They, too, had evidently been rehearsed by the major-domo for they bowed and then held out their animals to the Marquesa in the palms of their hands without speaking a word. Her eyes glittered from beneath their golden canopies for an instant. Then she signalled assent with that almost invisible nod. The men retired to the side of the room where Mr. Albert saw a paymaster was stationed. He had a long wallet filled with
peseta
notes of all denominations as well as a purse containing coins of small change. He paid off the two men, and for the instant there happened to be no attendant at that side of the room to relieve them of their charges. Instinctively and hardly realising it, Mr. Albert held out his hands for them and the two small animated bundles settled into his palms where they at once brought him comfort, the comfort he always experienced with tiny, dependent, living creatures. Mr. Albert held them to his face; the dachshund took a lick at his nose; the kitten opened her pink mouth showing tiny, needle teeth, and hissed at him.

The hairdresser now brought over the black wig and with a smooth, practised gesture settled it down over the naked skull. The all-in wrestler disappeared and the Marquesa was there. The gold upon her eyes, fingernails and toes was both subtle and barbaric against the shining jet of the towering wig. Two jewellery salesmen, who exhibited to her something in a long shagreen case, the contents of which Mr. Albert could not see, were dismissed. She bought a bolt of shot silk in iridescent green and red, and a second of silver-brocaded mauve. She bought likewise a small rug no bigger than a bath mat that displayed the sheen and colours of a peacock’s plumage, and Mr. Albert saw the treasurer dig deep into his wallet to pay for it. She signed papers and letters proffered by a secretary, and dismissed two applicants with a tale of woe before they were even half-way through with their narrative. And this again brought anxiety to Mr. Albert’s heart as to how he would fare. He hoped somehow that she would be finished with her dressing before he was summoned, for he did not see how he would be able to confront, without stumbling and blushing, a woman wearing tight cami-knickers draped around huge hams. Where would his gaze come to rest?

He was to have his wish, for the Marquesa now arose from her couch; a maid divested her of her dressing coat to reveal her laced, stayed, and corseted in the manner still in vogue at the turn of the century. Petticoat after petticoat went on over her head. Simultaneously, the wardrobe mistress pushed over the dummy with the gown which opened at the back. The dummy was removed and the figure of the Marquesa inserted in its place. The swirl of attendants leaped to the rear, zipping, snapping, and hooking; a pair of shoes with red heels were slipped on to her feet; and an ivory fan with gold lace was put into her hand. She chose a ruby and diamond necklace, rings and bracelets to match, with pigeon’s-blood ruby pendants for her ears.

Mr. Albert wished now that his turn had come before the Marquesa had been completed, for whereas before she had only been disturbing because of the ridiculousness of her attire, now she was monumental, imperious—a grandiose blend of every artificiality made to transform. Two flunkeys rolled forward a full-length mirror and tilted it to the proper angle, and for a moment the Marquesa stood towering regally regarding herself, staring straight into her own compelling eyes with not so much as the tremor of an expression upon her painted face.

The mirror was removed; the Marquesa sank, not ungracefully, once more upon her chaise longue and, unfurling her fan, waited to hear the last of those who had bid for a moment of her attention. Mr. Albert became suddenly aware that she had gestured towards him. The major-domo was motioning to him frantically that he was to go to her now and say whatever it was he had to say.

The old man glanced wildly left and right, hoping somehow that it was another who was being summoned, but there was no one and so, knowing that his knees were trembling, he shuffled forward, quite forgetting that he still held the puppy and kitten nestling in his palms.

He was frightened. He was frightened to death of her, who she was, how she looked, and where he now was. This dream in which he was caught up seemed to be swelling and ballooning inside his head most appallingly. And then something happened which completed his unnerving. The Marquesa spoke to him in faultless English. She said, “My major-domo tells me you are from the circus that performed in Zalano. What is it you want?” When she spoke his language all the Spanish roughness, harshness and resonance went out of her voice, her tones were soft and her accent impeccable. What really robbed Mr. Albert of all that remained of his wits was that the voice which emerged from this tremendous and formidable woman was that of an English lady.

Mr. Albert had been preparing through all this a kind of recitation in his mind, a sequence of events that had taken place since the destruction of the circus, illuminated by words he hoped would move a heart of stone—the deterioration of the health of the lion, the tiger and the black panther, the slow disintegration of Judy, the elephant. Then he would tell of the pitiful plight of the monkeys and the death and disposal of the deer and kangaroo, with the imminent danger of further casualties to the helpless inmates of the menagerie unless help in the shape of regular and adequate food supplies was forthcoming. All this was destroyed in an instant at finding himself confronted by this Spanish autocrat who addressed him in the manner of an English duchess.

Hence Mr. Albert bobbed, shuffled, winced, found himself in an insoluble struggle as to what to do with his hat, the kitten and the puppy, and went completely to pieces. “Ma’am, them animals are starving—they ain’t getting enough to eat—they’ll die off like flies like them others—we done what we could, ma’am, but it ain’t enough unless Mr. Marvel comes back or sends us money—there ain’t enough money to feed them, like I said, and they’ll die on our hands—it’s enough to break your heart standing there watching them and nothing to do. I thought maybe if you had some food, not that I wouldn’t work for it or do anything you said like the others are earning what they can, but it ain’t enough, see? For an elephant takes a lot of feeding and them there cats will eat up all the meat you can give ’em, but there isn’t any. So I thought—” and he trailed off lamely, never revealing what it was he thought since it was by then as apparent to him as it must be to anyone present at that morning’s levee, that he had failed to engage the attention of the Marquesa.

Her fan was spread and fluttering impatiently, the painted cupid’s bow of her mouth was pursed, and her eyes were filled with boredom. She said, “Are you trying to say that your animals had to be left behind and that there is insufficient food for them?”