The Holy City (17 page)

As I eyed her fixedly all along the length of my cane.

That was the night that I finally prised it from her — neither she nor her parents had been involved in the war at all. I
sighed resignedly and reassured her that she didn't have to worry.

— I'll do anything, she said, please, Mr Chris.

— Uh-uh-anything? I said, a little embarrassed by my stammering. But, nonetheless, I was determined to press onward.

— Yes, she told me, anything what iss most what you want I will do.

Holding her by the arm — we were standing by the fire — all of a sudden I thought of Henry: his face impassive, ungiving, grave.

— Iniquitous, I muttered gravely. Dissolute.

Before going to a drawer and taking out a tin of black polish. There was a kiwi poking with its beak on the front.

— Here, Vuh-vuh-Vesna, I said, puh-paint your face.

— You don't really want me please, do this.

— You said you'd do anything. So, come along, paint your face. There's a good girl. Thuh-thank you.

When it was over, I don't think I even bothered to smile. She broke down and told me it was crazy.

— Of course it's crazy. It's the sixties, baby, and Stevie Wonder is the star. That's you,
My Cherie Amour
— so get with it, kooks!

But I was wasting my time. She hadn't a clue who Stevie Wonder was.

— Oh forget it, I said, and switched on the television — not bothering to open my mouth for the remainder of the evening.

As she sat there stupidly, not knowing what to do with herself, looking like some idiotic black-and-white minstrel. Making these little occasional pleas for clemency, with her ebony paws sitting there like small birds in her lap. But, like I told her, why should I be in any hurry to forgive her? After all, who was it who had made it come to this?

— I mean, who was the person doing the deceiving, Vesna? I enquired of her coldly a number of times.

And I make no apology for it, for deception is one thing I really do not like. I made no bones about it — it was touch and go if we'd ever live in the Happy Club again. Ever go near it. Fortunately, however, we did in the end, and that unfortunate day now belongs, like a lot of other disagreements between us, to history. Sometimes, even yet, when I see that kiwi on the front of the tin, it always provokes the tiniest little laugh, inducing me to reflect on just how wonderful the Happy Club is, and how lucky we two are, as human beings. Turning the pages of Stevenson once again, as I kiss her softly on the cheek, reciting my favourite verse yet again:

She looks now as physically attractive as ever she did, Vesna Krapotnik. At least to me. Yes, as beautiful as the
day we first met, and that's in spite of the inevitable passage of time. Which, inevitably, in one way or another, affects us all. An inescapable fact of life, and one to which my recent hip replacement will attest. I was worried sick about Vesna all during that fortnight I was forced to spend in hospital. But when I returned, thankfully, everything was exactly as it had been — even down to the golden treasury lying where I'd left it, right beside her on the pillow. The Happy Club, however, needed tidying. Quite a lot of tidying, as I'm sure you can imagine. For with my being away and having no cleaner — it would have caused obvious complications if I'd allowed anyone in — it really was in an appalling state now, so bad that there was actually a rat or two sniffing around, and one of the Moroccan cushions had been torn to pieces.

So it was after that that I set to redecoration with a vengeance. With everything in order — tip-top, in fact. Chic but comfortable, I suppose you might say. And that is the way I intend it to stay, and not just for now or tomorrow. But for as long as Vesna and I remain on this mortal earth. As I luxuriously draw on my Peter Stuyvesant, softly lilting the air of ‘We've Only Just Begun' while sitting by the fire, thinking to myself how Vesna Krapotnik is as much a dreamboat now as she was that very first day. When, quite by chance, I encountered her in the café on the Plaza.

So unassailable is our relationship now that we can even laugh and joke about some of the little falsehoods she has perpetrated from time to time.

— You were quite the little minx, weren't you, Madame Vesna — telling me stories about your poor daddy being tortured? Such a silly you must have thought old Popsie! Suh-suh-suh-such a silly you must have thought poor Daddy C.J.!

It's nice to think of the tinkle of her laughter that day as we sat there — for the whole afternoon — sipping our Merlot, and the way she'd lean forward in her blue jeans to stroke her knee, but really and truly she looks so much better now. Certainly much more adventurous in her style of dress. Indeed when I met her, her imagination never seemed to extend beyond the Levi's jeans and peasant-scarf combination, clattering with beads, like something you'd have seen in a folk club in the seventies — a kind of copycat Carole King or Janis Ian, and not too convincing either. But that's all over — binned for ever. And it's sixties glamour for Vesna, all the way.

—
Is that all there is,
Peggy will often sing.

And to which I reply:

— For me it's more than enough, Peggy Lee.

I actually purchase most of her outfits myself: on eBay also. Yes, and take great care doing it, believe me, for the key to creating any image lies in the detail. I have all her items stacked away in the wardrobe, meticulously labelled. Why, it's almost like the Green Shield Stamp shop in there. What with the Dreamland nighties, the pearls, the figure-hugging dresses, the Babushka-style chiffon scarves. There is even a
box of Foster Grant sunglasses, the brand of course favoured by Dolores.

I go to all this trouble for the simple reason that nothing — irrespective of any grave transgressions in the past — is good enough now for Vesna Krapotnik. I want to ensure that she really looks smashing. ? doll', as they used to say way back in the good old you-know-whats.

As I rest my chin upon my walking cane and gaze at her, admiringly: with the mood between us implacable, unmoving — uniquely tranquil.

With not the slightest trace of emotion evident as I calmly lift a nylon stocking from the back of a chair and say:

— There's a good girl, come along now, Vesna, lifting her leg to help put it on.

Stroking her cool forehead — like I say, my own private Kim Novak — as she looks at me tenderly again and smiles. Approvingly, it seems to me, as I turn up the volume, clasping her cold hand as we do our little dance.

Before I smile, as always, and say:

— It's more than enough for me, Peggy Lee.

How heads, I often think, used to turn whenever the two of us would arrive at the club, laughing and joking as we came in the door, with Vesna in her leopardskin cape and me in my Crombie and expensive leather driving gloves. There was something quite showbizzy, really, about the manner in which we disported ourselves. But especially Vesna, my delectable
squeeze,
as they say in cheap novels, having been
expertly tutored by myself in the fine arts of fashion and deportment, with assistance from my ever-growing stack of magazines and videos. I had effectively transformed her from dowdy old milkmaid Carole King into a voluptuous supper-club glamourpuss — had swapped the dingy student-bar ambience that her appearance had for so long suggested for the wicked diva-sheen of the
demi-monde.
With not a hair out of place in her lacquered helmet of dyed blonde hair, and her painted pink lips quite out of this world:
soft enough to be innocent, sweet enough to inspire,
as Dolly used to say.

Her image now is more or less complete, and it will rarely deviate from the established routine, which is generally sixties-themed. Her dress can vary, though. Sometimes it will be a simple A-line creation or a cocktail-style figure-hugging dress, but what always remains consistent is its closeness to the style embraced by Dolores McCausland, yes, my old friend Dolly Mixtures, with whom, regrettably, it was fated never to be. And about whom, only just the other morning, I woke up thinking again. With such an intensity that it actually frightened me. And which taught me one thing — that the numbed platinum anaesthesia which one has appropriated from mimicking the orb-heads — it can never, at any time, be taken for granted. That is a lesson I learned from that experience.

I had been downtown that morning, I remember, just rambling about a little — rather aimlessly, I have to admit, and was making my way across the Plaza back towards the
apartment. Where Vesna, or so I presumed, was preparing my dinner, as usual. When, quite unexpectedly, I found myself standing in the middle of an old-fashioned farmers' market. Which jolted me, I have to say. For I hadn't been expecting to encounter such a thing. I hadn't even thought they were in existence any longer.

But they were — and the effect this one now exerted upon me was deeply disconcerting, frighteningly so. For, almost immediately, I experienced an unsettling sensation consuming my entire body, as certain old familiar undermining sentiments began — with resolute, incremental authority — to assert themselves. Resulting, within a matter of mere seconds — astoundingly, as I stood there on the concrete flags — in my experiencing, with shocking clarity, the apprehension that somehow I had been returned to the small winding streets and roadways of the old Cullymore. To the cramped rooms of a poky little farmhouse called the Nook, and to the steamy ash pits and back yards of Wattles Lane. With the phut-phut of my Massey Ferguson 35 stuttering along the rutted tracks and gravelled lanes.

But none of that had I, at least up until that point, considered unmanageable. That did not become an issue until, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a sudden glimpse of a number of tower-stacked cardboard trays — all of which were neatly arranged in rows, some flecked with hens' droppings, others perfectly polished, mirror-smooth. And all ever so methodically lined up in columns. The thought came unbidden, as a volt of electricity shot down my spine. As, illogically, I perceived them fearfully crying:

— Help us. Please help us!

Before eventually retreating to a terrifying muteness.

— This is how it is, this is our lot for ever, they seemed, almost bashfully, to peal.

Then I became aware of the montage of voices: a ragged cacophony sounding close by. Muffled to such a degree that there was only a small number of them I could accurately identify. But all of them, without exception, were of the old town. I could hear Wee Dimpie McCool laughing, quite audibly.

And then Lady Thornton.

— He's my boy, she said, he's my boy and for your information I'm not a whore.

Then I saw Henry — standing before the drawing-room fire, as stern and grave and judicious as ever. But — and this was what truly shocked me — when he turned his expression had altered. Indeed, even more unexpectedly, his countenance now actually bore no expression at all. It was quite blank — round and empty as a perfectly polished egg. Something you expected in the new world — not the old.

Even yet, the disparate hubbub gave no indication of abating: in fact, rose in volume, becoming like a frenetic beating of wings.

All I can remember is a woman approaching — regarding me with no expression of any kind. Balloon-head, I thought, go away, please.

I endeavoured to betray no evidence of the gravity of my inner turmoil. As I respectfully replied, in the tones of an automaton:

— I'm fine thank you, ma'am. Thank you for your concern.

In the circumstances, I would be inclined to say, it was a creditable performance. Then, with my heart racing, I gazed across the Plaza and found them there, convened as always, passing the wine robotically across the table. It ought to have been, as before, reassuring — predictable, comforting in its uniformity. But it wasn't. It was anything but. Then I turned towards the other side of the square. On the screen of the plasma as it rotated above the courthouse, an image of Dolores McCausland was now being relayed, but upon her shoulders was Marcus Otoyo's head: sanctified, silent — raising his young eyes up to heaven.

It was only when I turned the corner that the violent trembling began anew. And I found myself fleeing in haste from a truly ghastly consideration — that, at any moment, a zig-zag fissure would open up inside me, making its way with a cruel, methodical determination down the very centre of my being. With devastating intent, preparing to release an overwhelming tumult of lava. And that perhaps which I feared more than anything — a tidal wave of sentiment and emotion.

A bead of perspiration dropped on to the back of my hand — as I saw my mother, real as I'd ever seen her — Lady Thornton's form gathering slowly before me, now sitting by the window of the Manor reading to Little Tristram.

— Tristram dear, would you like a little poem? I heard her say, as clearly as if she'd been standing right beside me.

— Of course you would, she said, and gently turned the pages, smiling.

‘Escape at Bedtime' was the poem she was reading. Of course it was. It had to be. As Tristram sucked his thumb, swaying in her lap to the movement of her words.

— It's mine! I heard the shrill cry escape my lips. Don't read it to him, Mama! Fuck him, Little Tristram — little Protestant bastard!

The traffic was roaring past now, with the concrete flyover above the Plaza almost attaining the fluidity of liquorice, swooping above my head and looping back on itself as Lady Thornton continued to read:

As I cradled my head in the crook of my elbow, the scene began to become even more realistic than I felt I could humanly bear: overhead I could see Cassiopeia and beside that constellation — Orion.