Kudzuvine smiled fondly at the memory of the occasion. 'Guy's pissed himself on the carpet and E.H. is saying get the whole thing up he isn't going to have the room stink of fucking piss is all he cares. Goes out for his lunch. Comes back and there's a new carpet but he don't like the fucking colour so that's got to be changed too. You think that's all? Changes his mind again. Got to be a marble floor. Guy pisses on it you can wipe it up. Same with blood. Don't show. That's good old E. H for you. Lovely man. Right?'
It was hardly the word the Bursar would have chosen.
He glanced nervously at the door but remembered that the Senior Tutor was out there and in any case Kudzuvine was in an obviously amiable mood and was still fond of him. Not that the Bursar wanted his fondness but he was stuck with it. 'So what happened to the man who had died?' he enquired.
'Nothing. Too late. Cancelled the independents from Chicago and had him cremated real nice. Natural death and all so there's nothing to worry about.'
'I suppose not,' the Bursar agreed. 'But if he doesn't care about the people he employs, why do you all wear the same clothes he does? You want to look like him? Is that it?'
Again a strange smile lit up Kudzuvine's face 'Prof Bursar, you got it the wrong way round,' he said and there was no doubting his affection for the Bursar now. 'Who the fuck wants to look like old E. H? Man's as ugly as a fucking pig. Just not going oink all the time, is all. And pigs is what it's all about.' He paused to let the Bursar come to grips with this information.
The Bursar failed to. 'Pigs?' he said. 'How do pigs come into it?'
Kudzuvine laughed this time. He really was feeling much better. 'Wrong again, Prof baby. Pigs don't come into anything. It's what goes into pigs he don't like one little bit. Like he's phobic about pigs. Some guys in his situation get phobic about bridges or new expressways. Knew a guy once had this bad thing about crocodiles 'cause they eat just about anything and every little bit. Said to him one time, "Harry, so why fucking worry? You're living in Atlanta, Georgia, not up the fucking Nile, Africa." Didn't do no good. They took the poor bastard shark-fishing one day, like for bait. Got some big monsters too with him. Took them hours to wind those babies in.' He paused again at the memory of this extraordinary feat. 'So with old E.H. it's pigs. He don't want to end up in their swill tub like the wife of some guy he read about some time. He says to me one time we're going some place he won't eat Chinese not if he's starving and I say, "That's real nice of you, Mr Hartang. Is that because they eat hound-dogs and puppies and all?" and you know what he says? Says, "Karl K."-always calls me that when he is in a good mood-"Karl K. you're so fucking dumb and you don't even know it. Try thinking sweet and sour." So I try thinking and I'm out of the tunnel. "Oh, pork, you mean pork." Man, he went a funny colour and was I glad that fucking plane was pressurized or I'd have been deepsixed right then. But I got him calmed down by the time we landed Miami some place. Learned not to mention pigs or pork. And bacon is a no-no too. Even weaner is off the fucking menu. We had some dealings with a Heinie once called Weaner only they spell it different like with an I and an E and old E.H. pulls the rug on the deal because someone tells him a weaner is a small pig. And you got to be careful with fucking. I don't use that sort of language with E.H. in case he don't hear too good. Yes sir, Prof Bursar, he and anything piggy don't mix good.'
The Bursar felt extremely uneasy now but fear and curiosity kept him glued to his chair. 'Yes, I see that,' he said hesitantly, 'but I still don't understand about the white socks and polo-neck sweaters and the blue sunglasses which you wear.'
'Shoot, that's easy. Like with the metal detectors and the I.D. cards, it's for protection. Someone gets in the fucking building with an Uzi…No, with an Uzi he could probably do a total but there's no way an independent is coming in the precautions we take, not with an Uzi. Got to be real small and plastic and with maybe one slug and he'd have to hide the thing up his ass and no independent I know would do a thing like that. Blow his ass off with an unreliable plastic.38 no proper trigger? No way. So he gets in the building, who's the target? Everyone looks the same. Goes round asking if you're Edgar Hartang and he's got no ID. Hey, Prof man, tell you something. I wouldn't want to be that guy. Like they'd Calvi him like they did that other guy under Black Monks Bridge only this time they'd meat-hook him he was lucky. Right? So that's why old E.H. has the Transworld staff wear the same clothes he does. You don't get where Edgar Hartang does in the multi-media finance business without you cover your ass pretty damn good and E.H. has his covered every which way.'
'But why does he wear a cheap wig like that?' the Bursar asked in spite of himself. He had never heard such horrible stories before in all his life.
'Why's he wear the wig? And he sure as hell does wear it all the time I've been with him. Same as the shades. No one knows what he really looks like. He takes it off, could be someone else no one knows. Yes, sir, Prof Bursar, got to get up real early like the day before yesterday to catch that old motherfucker because he don't sleep far as I can tell and he's always some place else or like in the bunker we got over here.'
'The bunker being…'
'Transworld Television Production Centre. Boy is that place fireproof. Take a megaton to blow that baby away, know what I mean?'
The Bursar knew something. He should never have had anything to do with Kudzuvine. That fund-raising seminar had been the biggest mistake of his life. Until now he hadn't even known such people existed and, if they did, they shouldn't be allowed to. All the Americans he had met had been polite, educated people. But this was a mad, horrible, sadistic and monstrous world he had been introduced to. And into. He had to get out before his reason failed completely. Very slowly and with the utmost caution he got out of his chair and moved towards the door.
'Hey, Prof Bursar baby, you ain't going? Hey, no, stop, I need you. I got to need you.'
But the Bursar wasn't waiting to find out what Kudzuvine got to be needing him for. He wanted out, and Kudzuvine needed a hole in the head. Instead he got Skullion.
'I think we should allow the Master to sit with him,' said the Matron as the gibbering Bursar tumbled through the door. 'He usually has a definitely calming effect on the patient and I'll phone Dr MacKendly. I think it would be best if he were given something to quieten him down.'
'I've always been amazed at the Master's ability to exert his authority over the most unpleasant people,' said the Praelector a few minutes later as he and the Senior Tutor went downstairs in the wake of the Bursar who was being comforted by the Chaplain.
'That wasn't an unpleasant person,' said the Senior Tutor, 'the swine is a bloody gangster.'
'I knew that from the very moment I set eyes on him,' said the Praelector, 'but what a very useful gangster he is proving to be.'
Above them Dr Buscott was carefully removing the long reel of tape on which every word Kudzuvine had said had been recorded and was replacing it with a fresh reel. But before doing so Dr Buscott had taken the additional precaution of ending the recording with his own sworn statement and that of the Chaplain that what had been heard was a true and authentic record of what had been said at the time and date.
15
To Purefoy Osbert the comings and goings at the Master's Lodge were of only visual interest. He had no idea what was going on over there but from the window of his room he watched the Senior Tutor and the Praelector and the Chaplain come and go across the lawn and past the Master's Maze in their various ways. The Senior Tutor strode now that he felt better, the Praelector stalked slowly and meditatively with his head bent like some long-legged water bird, possibly a heron, watching for a fish. The Chaplain trotted, and the Bursar had to be helped. But the strangest figure to emerge from the Lodge was the Master himself who came, usually at dusk, though occasionally, when his presence by Kudzuvine's bedside was not required, in the morning or afternoon to sit by the Back Gate as he had done when he had been Head Porter, watching and waiting for the young gentlemen, as he still called the students, to climb in after hours. Not that 'after hours' could be said to exist any longer. The College gates, when not closed against intruders, were left unlocked all the time. But traditional ways persisted at Porterhouse to the point where the Night Porter kept a list of every undergraduate who came in after midnight and the list went to the Dean who would summon persistent late-nighters and threaten them with fines or even rustication if they continued staying out late. Not that the Dean really objected. As he put it many times to culprits, 'There is a right way of doing things and a wrong way. And the right way after midnight is over the back wall next to the Master's Lodge.' The fact that the back wall was topped with a double bank of revolving spikes to prevent undergraduates climbing in provided the sort of challenge the Dean approved of.