9
They were sitting together on the flight back up north, so she had been retransformed into April Elgar, and very lovely and mythical with it. Her hair, newly straightened, was all ink and health. She was else fresh Blue Mountain coffee mixed with the morning's milk, scarlet too, dress and liprouge and fingernails and, as Enderby knew though scarlet leather hid them, toenails as well.
"That's what she said," she said, "when you weren't there, in the John or some place."
"In the er yes," Enderby corroborated. "Never ask me to be insincere again. God won't attack, anyway. He could see through the confusion. A great one for sorting out chaos. In London on a hoarding I saw DEVLIN THE BIG NAME IN DEMOLITION. I misread that Devlin, naturally. It's the other up in Indiana we have to watch. Shakespeare, that is."
"It's not Indiaaaaahna, it's Indianna, like in bananna."
"Banahna," Enderby corrected. "That thing with jam and sliced bananas and custard your ah momma made was very good, took me back to my infancy. The turkey was good too, very crisp on the outside. But strong tea is her real, appropriate when you come to think of it, forte. She said I ought to stay on and help look after the kids and have some real good home cooking. She seemed to think I was not very well. A consequence of."
"They're charitable people," she said, "and don't you forget it. My momma told everybody you been working too hard and got the word of the Lord all balled up. That's charity."
"Caritas," Enderby said. "Well, she's welcome to come to Tangiers. Kids as well. Do them good, they can learn Moghrabi Arabic and be black Muslims or something. No, they can't, being Baptist, I see that. You too," he then said. "You'll knock them ah cold." He then saw her very clearly lying naked in the sun and felt his flesh respond terribly. But she wouldn't lie in the sun, brown enough already. He spread Time magazine over his crotch. She said:
"That's in Africa some place, right?"
"North. The kingdom of Morocco. Not what they call Black Africa. This unitary concept you get over here from some of those woolhaired louts is a load of ah nonsense. Africa 's very big, you know. So big that nobody can swallow it. They huddle into tribes in self-protection from it, you know. Anyway, we're all exiles. You and I, anyway. As for colour, that's only like furniture. A green chair or an orange one, it's for putting your fundament on. If white's no good it's because it has the wrong connotations. Leprosy, slugs, and all the rest of it. It's not real white anyway. If you think I like being white you're wrong. I see myself white writhing over your divine brownness. An abomination. I beg your pardon. Shouldn't have ah externalized that vision. Better off as we are," he added vaguely.
"How do you mean – as we are?"
"I love you," Enderby said boldly. "I shall love you till the day I die. There," he added unnecessarily, "I've said it. Demand nothing. Totally disinterested. Perhaps," he superadded, "I can start writing poems again. Love poems. From a distance. Me white in Africa, you black here. Not really black, of course. A damnable politicoracial abstraction. There," he finished.
She sighed out cigarette smoke. "Brother," she then said, "you sure are one large pain in the ass."
"Unfair. Disinterested. Ask nothing. If you wish, I apologize for that ah declaration. We're coming into Chicago now, my kind of town, sorry, that's back in Tangiers. Then back on the job, forget what I said. Partners in crime only. It is a bloody crime too. The things we're doing to Shakespeare. Then I pack your divine image among my dirty shirts and go. Love poems."
"Pain," she varied, as they prepared to get out, "in the divine fundament."
"What God showed to Moses," Enderby said, following her down the aisle. "I've often wondered why. God with a bottom. Some very profound significance."
When they had marched a mile or so, to the accompaniment of ubiquitous Vivaldi, nice change from pop, pop of its day when you came to think of it, to the area whence the aircraft for Indianapolis took off, Enderby at once sat down and chewed a couple of Pepts. Silversmith was there, with two other men. "Hi," he offered. He effected laconic introductions. "Len Bodiman, orchestrator. Pip Wesel, MD. " Bodiman carried a heavy canvas bag which presumably contained what would be called the score. His glasses, in heavy black mourning frames, were too big for him, and he kept them on by variously grimacing. He was a big soft man in a kind of Churchillian sirensuit. Enderby said:
"What kind of orchestra? Shawms, recorders, viols da gamba, sackbuts? Authentic, I mean?" It was this Pip Wesel who replied. Enderby assumed that Silversmith's rude terming of him as Mentally Deficient was either a joke or a tribute to his creative madness in whatever field he wandered, scenic artistry perhaps, but the young man, who was chihuahua-hairless, was full of uncoordinated gestures and he now bleated several times. He said:
"We've been hearing about you. Mike here said that's what you'd say. You want madrigals too? Hey nonny nonny and all that shit?"
Enderby felt his neck getting thicker. "Don't," he threatened, "use that word in the presence of this lady here." April Elgar was standing somewhat apart, and Enderby saw himself, with bitter regret, as physically not very disjunct from these three ugly leerers. White and unbalanced, paunchy and full of tics. He pulled in his own belly since he could not push in theirs. He had a vision of April Elgar writhing on a bed with a black man of comparable beauty. He nodded with desperate regret and satisfaction. April Elgar said:
"Save your breath, kid. He's crammed with that er commodity." She had learned something from him, Enderby, then. Wesel said:
"Okay okay, colleagues, right? Working together, right? Peace and love and all that shit, right?"
"There you go again," Enderby said. "And what precisely is your ah role in this enterprise?"
"MD," Wesel said.
"That's frank, or perhaps facetious, but what is it precisely that you do?"
"He wags the stick," Bodiman said. "He's the stickwagger." And then, to April Elgar, "You got rhythm yet, Ape?"
"Don't," Enderby began, "call -"
"One of the big black fallacies," Bodiman continued. "Rhythm as the inborn inheritance of the jungle."
"I got more rhythm in my ass," April Elgar said unwisely, "than you got in your whole fat sluggy ofay corpse, brother. I can see we going to get along just fine."
"Shakespeare at work," Enderby pronounced. "Sowing dissension. It's the curse he prophesied. Moving his bones." But nobody listened. They had been told through a loudspeaker to get on the aircraft, but Bodiman found the opportunity to say:
"In your ass, right," and she:
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"He's not referring," Wesel said, "to your singing, if that's what it's called." And then he skipped ahead, bleating. If Enderby had had the money, he would have limped back through the crowds and Vivaldi to the international segment of O'Hare, there to purchase a homeward ticket and get, as they said here, the hell out. But he was chained. On the aircraft, next to an April Elgar who brooded and drank whisky sours in excess, by some dispensation, of the number allowed by the paternalistic airline, he gloomily regarded his new digital watch, faintly fascinated by the onward march of the square figures which turned one into the other with insolent ease, a kind of numerical paranomasia. Then he switched the instrument to a calculator and added up large sums.