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Selected Stories: Follies and Vices of the Modern Elizabethan Age

Selected by the author with end list of follies and vices, and quest themes

John Hunt Publishing Ltd.

from A Spade Fresh with Mud (1995)

1 Neck out to Sea

"When I go to bed I stay awake and talk with my wife until one," said Jack the publican in the sheltered bay, "and we discuss the clients. We call them all by their names and their drink. So I ask 'How was Bitter Bill?' and my wife asks 'What about Whisky MacHenry, did he come in?' We call Grimble 'Mixed-up John', and not just because he always mixes his drinks. He may be a painter, but he's also a responsible married man, and he doesn't go to Lodge meetings every night you know, and his wife knows it. I see trouble coming in that family. Whisky MacHenry's warned him – you know, the BBC producer. I was there, and do you know what Grimble said? 'BBC producers are men with draped coats and sewn-up sleeves.' What do you think he meant by that? Anyhow, it's a question of bust and personality. We all like a bit of bust – I've got two lovely models tucked away, if you're an artist – but you've got to keep things in proportion, haven't you, and your wife comes first. No, he's mixed up. I've told him myself. I told him when Whisky MacHenry was there, and do you know what he said? 'Jack,' he said, 'no man's an island but this one's a bloody peninsula – he's all neck out to sea and minding his own business.' Strange bloke, old Grimble. I mean, you can't live like that, can you. You can't turn away from society and live as you want, as if you're a bloody genius or something."

"No, you can't," I agreed, because I was expected to, and I drank up and said "Good night", and on my way home I walked out to the promontory. There was a causeway of moonlight across the water, and as I clambered down onto the rocks the lights of the sheltered bay slipped out of sight and the wind flapped my trousers and tugged my hair and I felt a great exhilaration, braving alone the pounding of the sea.

2

Angels in a Golden Light

One evening I went to the College to borrow a book. The Baghdad sun was setting through the palms, and there were still a few students wandering in groups on the hot sand. Then I saw the Head of Department. He was standing alone in his shirt-sleeves by the brick building ahead, and he was just looking. He was always the first to arrive in the morning and the last to leave in the afternoon, but no conscientious, public-spirited sense of duty could explain his presence on the campus this late. As I drew level with him I slowed down and said, "Good evening Maurice."

He turned and gave me a brief, sad smile on his tubercular skull of a face, a smile that showed his decayed teeth, and then he resumed his gaze across the sand. "It's so rewarding belonging to this University," he murmured after a moment. "It's wonderful to watch the students and feel you've given them what they're talking about. Look, they're like angels in the golden light."

He fell silent, and I was at a loss for words. "Yes," I said, making a pretence of sharing his mood and gazing towards the palms, "yes, they are." Then I said, "Well, I must go on to the library," and he nodded almost absent-mindedly. I had always thought of him as an emotional, rather melancholic man, but now I saw him as a man who lived for his job because he had nothing else to belong to, and who fended off solitude with a public-spirited dream.

I was in the library about five minutes. When I came out it was still light but I could not see him at first. Then I saw him among the students. He was standing in the centre of a group having his photograph taken, and he had his arms round the shoulders of two boys I knew to be Communists. In fact the entire group must have been composed of the devils, for no Nationalist or Nasserite or Westerniser would be seen dead in the company of a Communist. Just afterwards the group broke up, and the Head of Department raised an arm in the golden light, as if signalling his acceptance by his dream, and I waved back.

A year later, when the Communists were being purged, he was giventwenty-four hours to leave the country, all the charges being related to "certain photographic evidence", and according to one person who saw him off at the airport, his eyes had a totally bleak look, as though he were being expelled from a Paradise of innocence.

3

People Like Masks

I had already met Buddy Harrow, so I knew who he was when he appeared towards the end of a Tokyo party and ironically shook hands with his wife. I didn't know much about him, though, so I asked the man I was talking to, "Who's that?"

"Oh, he's an American businessman turned ideas man," was the reply. "He left his company about a year ago, I think, and judging by what his wife says, he seems to be living off her money. At least, she once told me he wasn't selling very many ideas."

Later I was able to talk to him. At first he had a kind of hunted look: his thick black glasses did not go with his stocky, pugilistic figure and his crew-cut. But when I said "I hear you're peddling ideas" he immediately came out of his shell.

"Do you know anyone who wants to get in on fifteen million pounds a year?" he asked.

"I might do," I said guardedly. "Tell me more. What's going to make fifteen million pounds a year?"

"Life-masks," he said, "and people's vanity. I've got a new technique in portrait-sculpture, and if I don't get backing within two weeks the whole thing's dead."

He told me in detail about the "new technique". It involved a peripheral camera. This camera had already been developed by Shell, in 1961 to be exact, but Shell was not using it for portrait-sculpture. The subject would sit on a revolving drum for no more than three minutes. Using the technique of the floating point, an old device in making maps from film, the sculptor would be able to produce the final bust or life-mask within half an hour.

"Look, I've got some photos," he said, whipping some display cardsfrom his pocket. "Isn't that better than Epstein – isn't it more real?" The deliberately roughened head was certainly realistic, though to put it mildly, I would have preferred to respond to an Epstein. "Mass produced sculpture," he boasted, "and the subject needn't sit for more than three minutes. And just think of the applications. We could have Halls of Fame for every sport, and every company president could have a cheap bust of himself in his office. If we sold at forty-five dollars we'd be making a hundred per cent profit. And I've got another technique for scaling down, so we could produce miniatures: masks on rings, Beatle masks on brooches." He was quivering with excitement. "And I've got the publicity worked out. What I do is get an interview on the Johnny Carson show and get two million dollars worth of free advertising, for the show goes over to millions of people throughout the States. I'd ask for applications from department stores, and I'd get a thousand agents and have a thousand centres. I've got their profits worked out, and it still leaves us fifteen million pounds a year. And later I'd bring it over here. The possibilities for expansion are world-wide."

There was just one drawback. There was a man in London called Macpherson who was already using the peripheral camera in a small way. To be exact, he produced half a dozen busts or life-masks a day, and had even done some members of the Royal Family. The point was, this Macpherson was not doing it as a business proposition. "He's a complete fool," Harrow said. "He just doesn't realise the potential of what he's doing." I wanted to say "Perhaps he's as stupid as Epstein", but I didn't. "I've got to tie in Macpherson," Harrow wound up. "And I've got to get an agreement with Shell that'll give me a monopoly on the cameras. And I need four thousand five hundred pounds to buy basic equipment. Look here's a letter from Macpherson. You see, he's willing to sell the basic equipment for four thousand five hundred. I can do all that in London, so I need my air fare to London. After that I go to the States to fix up the publicity, so I'll need my air fare from London to the States. I'm not doing it for nothing, and my salary's two hundred pounds a week. And I've got to get backing quick, because Hollywood's interested. I wrote to Frank Sinatra a couple of weeks ago," he explained in an agitated stutter. "I was desperate for backing. And if he doesn't look after me, if he goes ahead and uses the idea without including me in the rake-off, then it's dead. I've worked on this for nine years," he went on. "The peripheral camera was almost known about at the end of the war, and I first had the idea just before the end of the war. This is a life's work," he finished, "and if I haven't got backing within a few days then my life's work is dead."

"What about your wife?" I asked. "Hasn't she any money?"

Harrow was silent for a moment. When he spoke all he said was, "I can't get the money from my wife," and I thought I understood the distance in the ironical handshake.

I have always been in sympathy with a dream, no matter how big-sounding or vulgar it may be. In those days I was at war with society, and I must confess, I derived a cynical pleasure from the idea of making a fortune out of bourgeois vanity and egoism, and of thereby liberating myself once and for all from its stupidities and being free to take Epstein's path. So I promised to help and arrange a meeting of half a dozen potential backers, one of whom belonged to Shell. If they liked the idea, they would contribute towards six shares of £1,000 each, each share to have one-sixth of any profits the resultant syndicate company might make. Harrow was to have a free share.

When I telephoned Harrow's house to give him news of the meeting, his wife answered. "I wonder what you and Buddy are up to," she said, after I had told her that I would ring back later. "He's mentioned your name several times recently, and he won't tell me what it's all about. Anyhow, let me warn you. If he's asked you for money, I wouldn't give him any."

"Why not?" I asked, stiffening.

"I just wouldn't give him any if I were you," was all she would say, and I knew she had refused to back his life-masks.

The meeting was, of course, a complete failure. Everyone was very impressed by the energy and drive of Harrow, but why had he no contacts of his own? Had the plan already been turned down by hardheaded businessmen? Why had he no money of his own?

"It seems to me," said Peters, our puppyish young English host who belonged to Shell and who was not renowned for his feelings for other people, "that you've never made a success of anything, and I'm just not going to back an Eternal Loser," whereupon he went upstairs and ranhimself a bath.

That night Harrow was a little subdued, but he had not lost hope. The next day I heard he had got the money from a rich American newspaper owner.

I did not see him again for six weeks. Then I walked into a cocktail party and saw him by the door. "Did you get to London?" I asked, as soon as I had been able to detach him.

"Yes," he said, "but it was too late. Someone had tipped Macpherson off, and he wanted twenty-five thousand dollars. And someone had tipped Shell off too, so I didn't get the monopoly. I think it was that Peters, but I haven't any proof."

"So you didn't get any basic equipment," I said.

"No," he said. "My backer made it a condition I was only to get the equipment if I got Macpherson's agreement and the monopoly. And I've quarrelled with my backer," he went on. "The bloody fool messed up my return flight so I was stuck in Bangkok for eight days, and then he wouldn't pay me any salary. Then he said, 'You can pay me back the fare when you see me,' so I walked out on him."

"So it's all over," I said.

"No," he said, "I'm looking for someone to put up three thousand five hundred dollars so that I can make the equipment over here. It's all over in the States but it's not over here. You see, while I was in London I got all the patent details, and I also had a chance to get a proper look at the two machines Macpherson uses. I can make them myself."

"Will you get another backer?" I asked.

"I'm meeting someone this evening," he said, looking at his watch, "in fact, I must go and meet him now," and he went without another word to anyone.

I walked away and found myself face to face with Harrow's wife. "He's been making excuses to you," she said. "Well, if you take my advice you won't believe him, because he's the one that's responsible, not Peters or his backer." She was slightly drunk. "He's trying to destroy himself," she went on. "All this big talk – he's nothing and he's even trying to ruin that. Life-masks," she said scornfully. "Ever since he got the idea he's been dead to everything except his squalid little dream. He even treats people like masks. He uses people, and just when they're becoming useful, he quarrels with them. He always manages to find some pretext. And if he hasn't quarrelled with you yet, I'm afraid it's because he can't have thought you very useful. Well I'm just about sick of it. It's been hard enough not having children – I've got fibroids and I have miscarriages. In future he can just get on and destroy himself without destroying me too. Next month I'm going back to London 'for a holiday'. If I've still got enough money for the air fare," she concluded, and as she turned away to put down her drink, her face a pale mask, I wondered whether in fact any guilt had driven this man who saw people as depersonalised masks to wreck his job, his marriage and his life's work, and I understood that he had involved the entire world, from me to Frank Sinatra, in an inner drama, in the systematic destruction of his dream.

4

The Need to Smash

"Oh," said Plastick over dinner, after I had been telling his wife about China, "you went to China with him. I suppose you carried the bags."

"No," I said, smouldering at this aggression but refusing to be drawn. "I did my share of the writing."

Later the conversation got on to ballet. "Jim only likes ballet because of the ballerinas," said his wife. She was vivacious and she had round, heavily made-up eyes. "They all dote on him and call him darling. I remember going round the back after one performance at Covent Garden, heavily pregnant, and never have I felt more like a tank on wheels."

I raised Nijinsky, and said I would like to have seen him hanging in the air. "I wouldn't especially," said Plastick. "There was nothing he could do that Nureyev can't."

"I would like to have seen him in 1916," I persisted, "when he was still able to make an audience hold its breath."

"There was nothing unusual about Nijinsky in 1916," Plastick asserted.

"He was a congenital neurosyphilitic," I said with ironic patience, "and he did sit in complete silence for thirty years before he died in 1950."

"Died in 1950 – Nijinsky? Nonsense," said Plastick.

"Of course he did," I said, "everyone knows that, and everyone knows he was a congenital."

"A congenital?" said Plastick. "What's a congenital? I don't think the word exists. I think you're making them both up, 'congenital' and 'neuro' – what was that other word?"

"Everyone knows that Nietzsche was a neurosyphilitic and that Lenin got neurosyphilis from a prostitute in Paddington and that the whole course of Soviet Marxism depended on a prostitute," I said heatedly. "And everyone knows that Churchill was probably a congenital who was lucky. Whereas Nijinsky wasn't. Everyone knows about the syphilitic's bald domed head and his rather foetal look."

"Is your husband always like this?" asked bald, domed Plastick, leaning across the dinner table and addressing my wife. "Does he always invent new words? Is he ever right?"

"He's always right," said my wife, "he reads a great deal and he's always right," and I felt elated. And, the ladies having retired upstairs, I stalked off to the downstairs lavatory in some dudgeon.

When I returned Plastick and the accountant were sitting opposite each other, cradling brandies. As our host served me crème de menthe Plastick said pointedly to the accountant, "You see, it's all a question of how much drink you can take. For example, I know how much I can take and when to stop. I know how many brandies to have." There was a silence while Plastick and the accountant exchanged glances.

"In what context?" I asked, picking up my crème de menthe, spoiling for a quarrel. Plastick and the accountant smiled, and at that moment the ladies returned and we all stood up.

When we sat down I turned away and talked to a guest from the Embassy. My wife talked to the accountant's wife on the other side of the room, and Plastick leaned forward to join in. "Have you seen it?" the accountant's wife asked Plastick, referring to a garden in Kyoto.

"Of course I have," Plastick replied. "I go to Kyoto two or three times a year." Later he asked my wife: "Are those black pearls or beads?"

"They're beads," my wife said. "There aren't such things as natural black pearls – they're dyed."

"Oh but there are," said Plastick.

"Excuse me," said my wife, "but I was told by an expert who has had a lot of experience in dealing with pearls that black pearls are dyed white pearls."

"Well, he's wrong, there are," said Plastick.

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Excerpted from Selected Stories: Follies and Vices of the Modern Elizabethan Age by Nicholas Hagger. Copyright © 2015 Nicholas Hagger. Excerpted by permission of John Hunt Publishing Ltd..
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