‘I’m still involved with that theme and doing more sketches and paintings. It’s a toughie, it’s so full of ambiguities. The thing about “Death and the Maiden” is that they need each other. Redon did a wonderful lithograph in his Temptation of Saint Anthony series in which they’re both full-frontal naked, although Death is more naked because he’s in his bones. The Maiden is rising above him like a fire balloon but he’s got hold of her arm with one bony hand and she won’t get away. The incandescence of her body lights up the air around her but her face is shadowed by night and Death has a firm grip. He’s very pleased with himself; in the caption he says to her, ‘It is I who make you serious. Let us embrace each other.’ He’s so full of himself that he doesn’t realise that she makes him serious too. Without her youth and beauty on which to exercise his droit du mort he’s nothing but a Hallowe’en costume. Niklaus Manuel Deutsch, 400 years before Redon, draws the maiden fully clothed but showing a lot of cleavage and not putting up much resistance while Death slides his tongue into her mouth and his hand up her skirt. The permutations are endless.’
‘Maccabees,’ said our waiter, plunking two bottles on the table.
‘No glasses?’ said Peter.
The waiter pointed to the slices of lemon stuck in the mouths of the bottles. ‘That’s how we do it,’ he said, and left.
‘You drink it through the lemon,’ I said.
‘Seems very effete for a bare-knuckle place,’ said Peter.
‘This is a very cosmopolitan establishment,’ I said. ‘How many paintings have you done so far in the new series?’
‘Three, but nothing finished — I’ve been papering the walls with sketches as I gradually get my chops together.’
‘I thought “chops” was a musician word.’
‘I got it from Amaryllis but the word isn’t limited to music — it means skills, technique, or talents of any kind.’
‘Sometimes my chops are a little bit scattered,’ I said. ‘This morning at the clinic I found it hard to stay interested. How’s Amaryllis?’
‘Fine. She’s into composing now, working on a Cthulhu suite. The Dream of R’lyeh is the first part.’
‘How does it sound?’
‘Oceanic. The mode is Lydian in a non-Euclidean sort of way if you know what I mean.’
‘Not yet, but I can wait till it comes to me.’
A man at the next table paused with a forkful of gefilte fish halfway to his mouth and turned to Peter. ‘What,’ he said, ‘You’re supporting Gaddafi now?’
‘I said Lydian, not Libyan,’ said Peter.
‘I don’t know from Lydians,’ said the gefilte man, ‘but if they want to start something Israel is ready for them.’
‘Thank you for your input,’ said Peter. ‘I feel easier in my mind now.’
‘There is no mental ease these days,’ said the man, and went back to his fish.
‘Amaryllis is known for her volatility,’ I said to Peter. ‘How is she to live with?’
‘I’m pretty volatile myself, so we get along all right. In any case, the whole thing between men and women is a very dodgy business. Have you seen Christabel Alderton since the Royal Academy?’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought you might. Are you going to say more?’
‘Not yet.’
‘OK, be prudent.’
‘Latkes twice,’ said our waiter, plunking down two plates which sent up strong feel-good aromas. Also a dish of sour cream. ‘Enjoy,’ he said.
‘Thank you,’ said Peter. ‘I’m sure we shall. By the way?’
‘Yes?’ said the waiter.
‘I saw the bartender working a beer pump,’ said Peter.
‘Oh, that,’ said the waiter.
‘Yes?’ said Peter.
‘That’s Masada bitter. I wasn’t sure you’d like it.’
‘Could I have a pint? I don’t want to be pushy’
‘My pleasure, sir,’ said the waiter.
‘Make it two,’ I said.
‘You got it,’ said the waiter. ‘My name is Moe.’
‘Nice to meet you, Moe,’ said Peter. ‘This is Elias and I’m Peter.’ We shook hands.
‘You I’ve seen before,’ said Moe, nodding to me.
‘You do any boxing?’ said Peter.
‘When I was younger. This is what I do now, plus I get extra work in movies from time to time. I’ll bring your Masadas.’
When the bitter appeared Peter sampled it and said, ‘It’s bitter all right.’
‘That’s why it’s called Masada,’ said Moe. ‘It’s an acquired taste. Have you read Josephus, The Jewish Wars?
‘No,’ said Peter.
‘Do,’ said Moe. ‘You’ll like our bitter better next time.’
The cosiness of The Daniel Mendoza made the day seem colder and greyer when we were outside again. At Covent Garden Peter went to browse the Jubilee Market. I whistled to Bo and we disappeared into the Piccadilly Line.
22 Christabel Alderton
25 January 2003. I was glad to see the last of Elizabeth and her ashes. I was beginning to think I had LET’S TALK ABOUT DEATH tattooed on my forehead. Or maybe it was just written on my face. Ashes. Two black horses drew Django’s black-plumed hearse to the Golders Green Crematorium. ‘Nuages’ was the music as the beautiful coffin that Rudy Ka’uhane had made went through the doors. Later I was given a little urn of ashes. I scattered them over the Thames near the Albert Bridge just as the tide was going out.
After going through customs I came out into the main lobby with the other arrivals. My footsteps joined the other footsteps and I listened as they took me back to 1993.
Although I knew that the Mini Hotel Sleep/Shower had been shut down I went to have a look anyhow. There it was, chained and padlocked, still with signs by the entrance showing the room rates. A hand-lettered sign on the door: AS OF TODAY (10/15/01) WE ARE NOT LONGER OPEN FOR BUSINESS. MAHALOÜ! Looking through the glass I could see various rubbish and debris, fallen ceiling tiles, some partitions, a stool, an old map on the floor. It had been such a quiet place, and now it seemed noisy with emptiness. I imagined my ghost beating its fists against the glass while I stood there listening to footsteps and echoes and smelling fries from where the Fresh Express cafeteria used to be. Now there’s a food court with Burger King, Pizza Hut Express, Chinese fast food and a bakery with coffee and ice cream. If aliens from outer space ever want to visit us they could home in on the smells from Burger King and Pizza Hut. Maybe they already have, and now they staff those establishments and say ‘Have a good day’ like regular people.
In London it would be almost nine o’clock in the morning; here it was getting on for ten in the evening of the night before London’s morning. So I was really in yesterday but that’s nothing new. I had coffee and pineapple ice cream while the people around me from yesterday or tomorrow had whatever it was time for by their reckoning.
Through the glass I could see the spotlit gardens and the little Chinese pagoda. I visited the ladies’ and remembered the air freshener of 1993 with its Juicy Fruit fragrance. Now there was just a blank smell. Then I went out to the Japanese garden and sat under the gazebo there. It was raining a little by then, and the drops pattered on the roof and on the leaves and splashed in the ponds. It was a good sound and the rain was like a time freshener with a smell of tomorrows.
I must have been sitting there for quite a while when I heard another sound. Then I saw something on the ground that flapped a little and stopped. I went to it and saw that it was a bat, strange and furry, the fur not like a mouse but like a proper little flying animal. It seemed dead but I was afraid to touch it.